


The Birdcage

by animesiren



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Arthur gets stressed, Crack, Crossdressing, Eames is a star, F/M, Family, Homophobia, Humor, M/M, Parent!fic, Parent-Child Relationship, Romance, The Birdcage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-10-11 02:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 53,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10453410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animesiren/pseuds/animesiren
Summary: Arthur is a middle-aged nightclub owner who is really just trying to keep the drag queens happy and the health department out of his kitchens. He doesn't have much time for the histrionics of his longtime partner, Eames, or these ultra-conservative in-laws that his daughter, Ariadne, is determined to bring home. "The Birdcage" film fusion AU.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Quite a few Author’s Notes:
> 
> There’s quite a lot I want to say about this fic, but let’s start with explaining what it is: this is a fusion AU which involves me taking our much loved Inception characters and inserting them into the storyline of the 1996 film “The Birdcage” which starred Robin Williams, Nathan Lane, Gene Hackman, and Dianne Wiest. The Birdcage is one of my favorite films. It’s the greatest political advocacy for gay rights film you can find that isn’t actually a political advocacy film and also has singing, dancing, and humor ranging from family appropriate to macabre. Arthur plays the role of Armand, a middle-aged gay nightclub owner, Eames is playing the role of Albert, the star of the club and Armand’s long-time partner, and Ariadne is playing Val, Arthur’s grown child.
> 
> Another thing I wanted to speak about was Robin Williams. The Birdcage is one of my favorite films, as I said, and it wouldn’t be what it is without its truly spectacular cast. This is a film that I hope they never do a remake of because the talent that’s showcased in the film just isn’t something that we can currently replicate. Part of what makes the wonderful cast so successful is Robin Williams leading them. I was devastated, in the way that only a kid who grew up watching Robin could be, when I heard about Robin’s death. This fic is at least partially done in memory of his wonderful humor, a range of laughs that drew in every crowd.
> 
> This fic is originally based on a kink meme prompt on the Inception kink community on Livejournal. I’m doing my best to find the original prompt, but it’s been three years. Most embarrassingly, I think I was filling my own prompt. I lost interest in this story about halfway through writing it, and then when Robin Williams passed away I quickly decided I wanted to finish this fic and finally get it posted. I will try to update with more info if I find the prompt. I wanted to close the thread with the completed prompt. If anyone is particularly good at navigating the inception kink meme and can find it, I would be eternally grateful. 
> 
> Now for the technical bits: warnings, sensitivities and such. This is a fic about a same-sex couple based on a film with very 1990s specific humor. There is cross-dressing, liberal use of pronouns and gender identification, and plenty of political party platform bashing on both sides. If you have a sensitivity to gender identification I would urge you not to read. I had previously posted a fic a few years ago where the term ‘wife’ was used to label a male character jokingly and the reader had an adverse reaction. This fic is filled with loose gender titles and roles. Gender is thrown everywhere and used like play-doh. Please be advised. There is swearing, briefly described sexual scenes, and adult themes.
> 
> Also, just so we’re clear: this is pretty much what fandom would define as “crackfic”. You’ve been warned.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own either the Inception characters or The Birdcage story. This fic, like all of my fanfiction, is intended for personal entertainment and not sale or reproduction.

**Greenwich Village, 2012**

 

The name on the outside of the club said “ _the birdcage”_ in lowercase bistro style writing that would have belonged better on Parisian streets, but just like its name the club had an uncanny, understated appeal. During the day when the lights were off, people rushed the streets and slums of New York City with only themselves in mind.

 

It was an entirely different cup of tea when night fell and the lights came on and the spotlights shone.

 

Looking at the sign you’d suddenly see more than you thought was first there.  A person could stand outside all night musing about the crowds of people that stormed the entrance. Man, woman, and everything in between positively crowded the lines each and every night. The call was strong with _the birdcage_.

 

This was _humanity_. This was people. This was family.

 

This was a celebration of acceptance. Opening the doors to the club was better than any release a person could find.

 

Your face, your clothes, your make-up, your style, your words, your accent, your mind and your manners – in _the birdcage_ there were no divides and barriers. Bodies moved and limbs weaved and from dusk until dawn that was all that mattered.

 

Welcome to _the birdcage_.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Arthur suppressed a sigh as he manhandled the bottle of tequila out of his bartender’s hand. He shouted over the music with effort and resisted the urge to reach a hand up and pull at his slick-backed hair.

 

“Okay,” he leveled a flat look at the young Thai man, “let me repeat myself again: Even if you feel bad for the poor, sober masses you cannot, under any circumstances, decide to fill every underage glass with tequila. Or rum. Or whisky. Or even fucking vodka.”

 

Xiao looked back at him with an equally flat gaze, “I don’t understand.”

 

Arthur pushed the irritated groan back down and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t keep standing here like this, the music was already changing into the next number and he had a club full of patrons that needed their myriad releases. Being a club owner wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He used to think there would be more than defending his liquor license.

 

“Look!” he said, “If they don’t have ID, then don’t serve them, understand?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Halpert.” The tone was acquiescing if you ignored the petulance, sass, and blatant disregard that came with it.

 

Arthur grudgingly relinquished the tequila, setting it back on the bar, and looped around behind his customers, greeting a few regulars as he went. If he was going to lose the license he might as well make sure the club makes a buck while he was at it.

 

This club was a dream of his that he’d had two decades to revel in. They did drag shows every Thursday and Sunday, eighties night twice a week—because it’s practically a way of life—and every other night and performance was dedicated to letting anyone and everyone be just the person they wanted to be.

 

Being a Friday night it was packed, but Arthur’s gait was familiar to many of the club goers and they let him duck and weave through them with little resistance. In return Arthur gamely ignored it when a hand wandered or a hip gyrated a bit too close. He would let them have their fun, for now.

 

“Niagara Falls!” a petite Latino boy all but shrieked, grabbing at Arthur’s elbow. The boy’s drink sloshed and Arthur hoped for the sake of his shirt that the boy wasn’t going to leave finger marks.

 

“What?” Arthur asked before he could shake the boy off. The kid looked vaguely familiar; second cousin’s boyfriend of a friend of a friend of a friend most likely.

 

“Bunch of us are going to Niagara Falls this weekend—to make it official!” Arthur recognized the younger man better now—a friend of Eames’ that had performed on stage a couple times who had a particularly revolting lizard tattoo across his neck.

 

Oh, Arthur thought, the Marriage Bill. New York getting same-sex marriage equality had been a record money making weekend at the club, and Arthur hadn’t resisted the urge to celebrate either, the results of which were still carefully hidden in his closet upstairs. It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t recognize the irony in that, it’s just the only place he had to hide anything that Nash’s nosy hands couldn’t find.

 

“So?” the boy was tugging on Arthur’s pressed shirt, adding more wrinkles to it even though Arthur had been distractedly tugging at the cuffs all day, effectively wrinkling it himself in his nervousness.

 

“You and Eames want to make it official or what?”

 

Arthur felt a flush rise to his cheeks even as he bid the boy farewell and assured him that he’d have fun at Niagara Falls even without Arthur or Eames there. After all, he had told the boy, who would make sure the club wasn’t burned down if Arthur wasn’t there? He’d sent the boy off laughing.

 

Turning back to watch the pop number that was gradually garnering more and more attention on stage he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

 

From where Arthur was in the crowd he could just see the left wing of the stage—the wing where his stage manager, Yusuf, seemed to be having fits.

 

“What the hell is going on now?” Arthur bristled and took off towards the stage entrance as fast as he could. “If one more thing goes wrong tonight I’m retiring to Boca.”

 

“ _I want your bad romance…_ ” filtered through the club.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

“I can’t find Eames anywhere!” Yusuf waved his clipboard like a bayonet through the air. Pinning an eye on every stage hand he saw, as if they are hiding the star of the show from him on purpose.

 

“You can’t find Eames?” the swelling anger that was apparent with the question announced the arrival of Yusuf’s boss. Stage hands scattered with practiced swiftness.

 

“Arthur!” Yusuf spun around, half wishing he could shrink into the stage curtains and never come out again. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

 

“Bloody is right,” Arthur didn’t even bother hiding his displeasure. These games that his partner played were old hat to him by this point. “You’ve had _no_ sign of Eames?”

 

“No,” Yusuf immediately started walking towards his usual post: the booth where he handled all stage coordination. It was wishful thinking that Arthur wouldn’t be snapping at his heels as he went.

 

“Yusuf,” Arthur’s growl was low. The stage hands in the immediate vicinity exchanged looks. Their boss had a specific way of running his club; their boss’s partner had a specific way of blowing that all to hell.

 

“Okay,” the darker skinned man threw his arms up, clipboard included. “He was back here before the show started, miffed about something. But, honestly, I was too busy; I mean have you seen the crowd we have tonight? Unbeliev—.”

 

“Yes I’ve seen the crowd,” Arthur said tiredly, realizing that soon he was not only going to have to hunt down his errant star but also prevent his stage manager from anxiety induced chest palpitations…again.

 

“—there’s at least one of the Kennedy clan here tonight!”

 

“Kennedys?” Arthur was immediately derailed. His eyebrows rose “Caroline?”

 

“No,” Yusuf shrugged, deflating a bit, “the younger ones I think.”

 

“Right,” Arthur nodded, swallowing the new information with as much outward dignity as he could. “I will find Eames, you: back to the show.”

 

“What do I do?” Yusuf said, eyes beginning to go wild and wide again. Arthur wondered if he even wanted to know what substance was ping-ponging its way around the man’s body. If it was able to make him this excitable, not even half way through the show, then Arthur figured it was a felony he didn’t need to be clued in on. The health code violations in his kitchens were bad enough. “Do I send Carmen on?”

 

“No,” Arthur shook his head. That move was more likely to cause a riot, “just stall for now.”

 

Before Arthur could go any further, however, he bumped into his house maid, who had no doubt just run down in a panic from the apartment over the club. The man was sweating glitter.

 

“Nash,” Arthur said tersely. He was varying between stages of anger and despair, “where is Eames?”

 

“Mr. Eames says he shan’t go on!”

 

“’Shan’t go on’ being his exact words I’m assuming?” Arthur very carefully willed his blood pressure down and ran a hand through his hair; he was so wired at this point that he didn’t even notice the limb shaking. _Kennedys_ for God’s sake.

 

“Yes,” Nash nodded emphatically, choosing not to acknowledge his boss’s caustic sarcasm, as per usual. “He’s still in his robe.”

 

Arthur whirled around, motioning for Yusuf to get into the stage box and do something. “Get back up there and tell him to get ready now!” Arthur snarled as calmly to Nash as he could “ _Merde_ , I don’t have time for the drama queen act tonight!”

 

Yusuf at least attempted to look sympathetic from his post; the rest of the stage crew near them simply attempted to avoid Arthur’s gaze, and therefore his anger, and tried not to grin too noticeably while they did so.

 

“Tell Carmen that she can get ready to lead the boys,” Arthur said, making a decision and turning fast, “but anticipate Eames!” he shouted, already halfway up the stairs.

 

“Men are supposed to be fucking simpler,” Arthur muttered rebelliously, nearly tripping his way onto the landing. “Fucking Christ.”

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

“You have to get up!” Nash whined at the blanketed lump in the middle of the king size bed. “Mr. Arthur’s going to be up soon and he’s already in one of his fits.”

 

“I don’t bloody give a damn!” returned the lump, the bed clothes giving an emphatic shake. “He can stuff it for all I care. The stage will not see me tonight! I’ll be quite content to die here by myself, ta.”

 

“I know,” Nash said cajolingly, “but maybe you could just get your pants on, hm?”

 

“Nash,” the lump said “Do you have a young man’s dreams? I had dreams too. Beautiful dreams! They were fantastic dreams!”

 

“Not to be blunt or anything,” Nash said, cutting off the dramatic diatribe before it could get into full swing “Mr. Arthur may not be willing to take his volcanic anger out on you when he gets up here, but I don’t pretend that I’ll be given the same mercy. Pants, please, Mr. Eames.”

 

“Do you know how Victoria Page died?” the lump declared, voice slipping like oil into long, posh vowels.

 

“No,” Nash retorted. He raised the loose trousers that Eames would have to wear as part of his costume for that night’s performance and attempted to slip one of the lump’s exposed legs into them.

 

“She died alone, waiting for her lover!”

 

Nash made reassuring noises, still attempting to wrestle the bared legs into costume. It wasn’t working. He huffed.

 

“EAMES!”

 

The shout came from the apartment’s back entrance, the club entrance. Immediately Nash made a break for the bedroom door but the lump threw back the blankets that were covering him and dashed towards the door before Nash could get there. Aggravatingly, this was practically a routine with them.

 

“Eames,” Arthur tried to get through before the door shut but came up short, catching sight of a silk dressing gown amid a flash of tattoos before he was abruptly closed out of his own bedroom. “Eames, babe, come on, let me in. Let me in!”

 

“No!” Eames shouted from the inside of the room, angry and emphatic he repeated himself several times at varying degrees of volume.

 

Nash tried to shove the Englishman away from the door latch but received an elbow to the diaphragm for his efforts. “I don’t want to see him! He’ll think I’m a right hideous sight anyway,” Eames exclaimed amid trying to drag the nightstand in front of the door. His posh vowels disappeared under the weight of East End solemnity.

 

“This is domestic bliss alright,” Arthur was muttering from the other side of the door. His temper jumped to irate as he began yanking earnestly at the door knob. “Can’t believe he won’t open the fucking door. Am I living with a child? I am, aren’t I?” Finally after one good yank he pulled the knob right out of the door.

 

Arthur gave a wordless shout of frustration, slapping his hands against the wood of the door. Finally he tried jamming his shoulder into the door, hearing nothing but confused shouting from the other side of it. Arthur backed up, prepared to run straight at the door. There was no time for delicacy.

 

“Eames!” Arthur shouted. The door flew back, its hinges squeaking in protest as Arthur erupted through the door. Nash was thrown unceremoniously to the side. Neither of the other two men paid him any attention.

 

“Are you trying to ruin me?” Arthur demanded. Eames refused to look at him though; instead he fled across the room to their walk in closet. Arthur followed hot on his heels.

 

For a few moments they wrestled amongst the clothing. They may or may not have been attempting to strangle one another with suit jackets and drag night lingerie. A belt buckle came dangerously close to cutting a line into Arthur’s cheek.

 

“Don’t look at me!” Eames threatened. “Don’t look at me with those underappreciating eyes of yours, you inelegant _yank_!”

 

Arthur threw himself away from the mess of fabrics, he found himself mouthing along to Eames’ usual hysterics as the man declared, “Those underappreciating, demeaning, cold eyes of yours!”

 

“Is this supposed to be new material?” Arthur asked dryly. The tangent was the same time and time again, the situation acting as the only differing factor. “No wonder comedy night is in a slump.”

 

Eames paused in extricating himself from a particularly dashing paisley jacket to shoot Arthur an unimpressed and insulted look “There you go!” he threw his arms up, “Always taunting me.”

 

Arthur cycled between trying to quell his anger so that he could move Eames along and wanting to shoot at the man and tackle him flat with rage. “We have a packed house downstairs,” Arthur settled on growling. He strode purposefully forward; he’d drag Eames into costume if that was what it took. It wouldn’t be hard to wrestle some clothes on him, it wasn’t even drag night.

 

“Aha, that sums it up well doesn’t it, darling?” Eames bemoaned, wounded lover act now in full swing, “I’m just a meal ticket to you aren’t I? Best summon immigration now. All ye huddled masses indeed!”

 

Arthur was left once again mouthing along to Eames’ usual diatribe while Eames stalked across the room. The man gave a superfluous adjustment to his robe and then turned on Arthur with a huff.

 

“I’m well aware that it’s all about your show, love,” Eames continued, as if this were a monolog of particular passion, “Not even _our_ show, hm? It’s all your show. The great and mighty Arthur Halpert.”

 

Arthur crossed his arms and stared steadily back at his partner, unblinking. That’s what they told school children right? Ignore them and they’ll stop?

 

“I want equality, Arthur.” Eames said, soft and slow with far more somber an attitude than he had been acting with before that point. He looked as if he were trying to get a message across the space between them.

 

“What more equality do you want?” Arthur asked, and then sarcastically he countered “Shall I inquire with Washington as to whether we can get an amendment in your name? It might have to wait until morning, you know, with me having to run a club and all and not really having that much time for constitution rendering.”

 

Eames rolled his eyes, “You’ll find the self-sacrificing martyr only looks good on one of us, pet,” he muttered. Then he jabbed a finger in Arthur’s direction, taking on his over exaggerated tangential approach from a few minutes before, “and don’t take that tone with me!”

 

Arthur analyzed the situation and switched gears, “What tone?” he asked, trying for contrite. However, Arthur had never really been one for convincing emotional facades. Eames had seen fit to point that fact out on many an occasion.

 

Eames must have been feeling particularly in character tonight because he began to pull out the big guns. “That tone! That contemptuous, bloody tone. The one that says you know everything because you have the fancy university degree and the deed in your name, and I know nothing because I live only to please you, my heart’s partner, and costume myself in pretty little dresses every Thursday and Sunday for the amusement of _your_ club.”

 

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Arthur replied, deadpan. He didn’t try for the appeasing lover role anymore; it wasn’t worth the energy, “Shall I call on Dr. Nelson? He’s dressed as Cher downstairs as we speak.”

 

Eames had whipped one of the silken pillows off their bed and at Arthur before he had even spoken. Arthur watched it fall from his chest to the floor with a look that clearly stated that he wasn’t quite sure when this became his life.

 

Eames turned his gaze to Nash “See what he’s made me into?” Eames asked.

 

“I don’t think—,” Nash tried to raise his hands, trying to stay out of the verbal brawl.

 

“I was young once--,”

 

“Still older than me,” Arthur cut in. He picked a neon colored feather from his shirtsleeve.

 

Eames continued as if he were uninterrupted, “and I had more talent than the lot of them--,”

 

“You still have talent,” Arthur intoned. He could say it a thousand times but on occasions like this, where Eames pushed to the edge of dramatics, it rarely proved anything.

 

Eames gave up on kvetching to Nash, he whirled back on Arthur. At which point Arthur figured that Eames must really only wear the silk robes for the added dramatic effect during these melodramatic moments.

 

Yusuf ran through the door, tripping on the debris that littered the doorway.

 

“The number’s almost over,” he said, bending over and gasping to catch his breath. Arthur made a note that the gym membership that they’d gotten the man for Christmas clearly hadn’t been used. “Do I send Carmen on?’

 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. If Eames wanted to play this game with him he would be all too willing to acquiesce and play it back. “Yes,” Arthur said, leveling Eames with a daring look.

 

Eames had to grin for a moment. Touché, he thought to himself. He made sure to slip back into character easily enough, giving a dismayed cry of betrayal in reaction to Arthur’s words. “No!”

 

“Yes!”

 

Yusuf was caught between the two of them as they both crowded around the man, Nash slipping away from the trio.

 

“You can’t have that barely legal, cheeky, little bastard lead the boys!”

 

“We have no choice,” Arthur said, nodding sagely. He made a shooing gesture to Yusuf.

 

“I will damn well go on,” Eames announced, he put a hand to his chest in the picture of righteous dignity, “The people have come to see me give them my best, and I’ll bloody well do it, I will!”

 

He made sure to toss Arthur a saucy look as he turned to go stand in front of the full length mirror. “And I’ll do it for the fans, not for anyone else.”

 

“Put on the Mumbo number,” Arthur said at once, his mind taking on the cold calculations of a business man, “tell Beatrice and Dante to get the fog rolling and the lights set.”

 

Yusuf nodded and jogged from the room, leaving at a much slower pace than he had arrived with.

 

Eames made Arthur help him over to his dressing table, feigning weakened breath and knees.

 

“Nash,” Eames called out, “my boy, I need some of those brilliant Pirin Tablets.”

 

“Pirin Tablets?” Arthur demanded, trying to keep his voice level, “What are Pirin Tablets? What are you taking?”

 

“Nothing,” Eames replied dismissively, rolling his eyes. He shook Arthur off and slumped into the chair of his dressing table. He turned his eyes purposefully away from Arthur, turning to greet Nash with a smile.

 

“Okay, but just one,” Nash was saying, cocking his hips and acting as if he were speaking to a child, “one before the show and one after.”

 

Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying to calculate just what Nash’s mystery tablets were. Their shape and color didn’t immediately make him recognize any of the usual narcotics. He jutted his chin out and gave Nash a piercing look.

 

Eames stuttered out a handful of over the top British sounding thank-yous before snatching Nash’s hand up and laying a light kiss on the knuckles. He connected eyes with Arthur in the mirror purposefully.

 

Arthur flipped him off in return.

 

When Nash had finished bustling around the table in his usual lady-in-waiting routine Arthur warily approached his partner. He stretched out tentative hands to rub the other man’s shoulders. It lasted a few seconds, Eames reflexively relaxing into the familiar touch and smiling into the mirror.

 

“Will you please stop that,” Eames said once he caught himself, slapping at Arthur’s hands and shrugging him off, “please, I have to prepare.”

 

Arthur gave up for now, knowing that if he pushed any further the talk would descend into bickering and the show would be that much later. He left the room, but only after pinning Nash with a stare and making sure that he tugged the other man after him.

 

“What was that?” Arthur demanded, reaching backwards to draw the door shut almost all of the way. He heard Eames flip the lid off of something that must be the stage oil, a substance that managed to show of the man’s well sculpted upper body muscles in a way that Arthur always appreciated.

 

Now was not the time to be distracted.

 

“What?” whined Nash in return, shuffling out of the doorway.

 

“Why are you giving him drugs?”

 

“It’s just aspirin, man,” Nash jerked his arm out of Arthur’s grasp, pouting, “with the ‘A’ and the ‘S’ scratched off.”

 

Arthur felt a bit of the night’s tension wilt away at the news. He had never known Eames to take drugs in the past and was relieved to find out he didn’t have to worry about it now either. Arthur knew he’d be on the war path if he ever found out that Eames was doing something so harmful. He would burn anything in his path. The protective way he took care of his partner was something that people had had to reconcile themselves with in the past.

 

This fit was only the latest in a long line of dramatics since Eames had begun to distance himself a bit from Arthur. Arthur couldn’t tell what was going on. He didn’t have all the information on the situation and it was driving him up a wall. Arthur hated dealing with Eames’ stage persona; he preferred to deal with his real partner, the man with whom he had spent the past twenty years.

 

“That is uncommonly brilliant of you, Nash,” Arthur drawled, reaching forward and patting the man’s cheek. He was grateful for his housemaid, at least for a second or two.

 

Nash rolled his eyes again, flaring his nostrils, “As Mr. Eames says: ‘Your condescension is appreciated.’”

 

“Best not steal his lines,” Arthur snorted, “you know he hates when people try to imitate his show.”

 

Nash just waved a hand in the air, after three years employment with the two men a night like this in the household was practically boring. He began to pick up the mess that had formed in the apartment, tugging at the pant leg of his cut off jean shorts absentmindedly.

 

After stepping bare foot on a door splinter he did take a moment, though, to shake his fist at the closed, slightly unhinged door, and swear in his pretend native tongue.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

“Indifference is the most awful thing in the world.”

 

Arthur scowled at Eames in the mirror. He sat on the corner of the bed and watched as Eames began to put together his look for the night. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Eames didn’t answer the question. Truly the man knew how to tap dance on Arthur’s last nerve.

 

“I’ve done every bloody thing I could do to make this house a home, haven’t I, love?”

 

“Yes, Martha Stewart,” Arthur replied, looking at his cuticles in disinterest, “you most certainly have.”

 

“I’ve done what I can to make myself attractive too, hm?”

 

Arthur cracked his neck. He wondered idly if he shouldn’t book a deep tissue massage for the next day, he figured he deserved a bit of hedonism. “Eames you’re being ridiculous.”

 

“So you don’t want me then?”

 

Arthur was used to the usual frivolous arguments, but he was able to pick up when one of the frivolous arguments turned into something more. He turned to connect his gaze with Eames’.

 

“What are you talking about?” Arthur said, and if he were being honest with himself there was pleading in his tone. “For twenty years you’ve been the only man I’ve ever had eyes for.”

 

Arthur thought that the serious, devoted words, words that he didn’t use as often as he should, would be enough to assuage Eames of whatever fears had fueled that night’s debacle, but they didn’t. Eames turned in his chair, and looked at the ground instead of at Arthur.

 

For once, Arthur watched his lover become speechless. It wasn’t a good speechless either, Arthur’s shrewd eyes thought that Eames looked like he had something painful to say, and that he wasn’t quite sure how to say it.

 

“You don’t love me anymore, Arthur.”

 

It’s an indicator of how ridiculous those words were that Arthur’s first response was to scoff and say “Please.”

 

Arthur crossed his legs and buried his face in one hand “That is the most unfounded—.”

 

“There’s someone else in your life.”

 

“What?” Arthur demanded, his hand dropped and he planted his feet flat on the floor and stared at Eames in pure astonishment. “How do you figure?”

 

Eames was looking anywhere but at Arthur. When he spoke his tone was normal, but the way he strove for flippancy was stressed. “Maybe I’ve gone psychic, love. Maybe I’ve gone psychic and maybe the bottle of white wine in the refrigerator has something to do with it too, hm?”

 

Arthur sat up straighter on reflex. He tried not to let his immediate panic blossom onto his face, but he was afraid that his heart was racing so fast that surely Eames could hear it. He hadn’t figured that Eames would even notice the wine. What was he going to tell him now?

 

“I only drink red,” Eames said, leaning forward and talking in hushed tone, as if they were sharing a secret, “and so do you.”

 

Eames grabbed a silver chain off the dressing table and moved to kneel in front of Arthur so that his lover could latch the chain around his neck. It was a routine they had had since almost day one.

 

“There’s no man,” Arthur said softly after clearing his throat. Eames rested a hand on Arthur’s stomach, tender. “I’m switching to white because they’re saying that red has tannins.”

 

Eames was still, watching Arthur’s face with careful, weary eyes. Arthur was honestly floored by the exchange. This was the most seriously suspicious his lover had ever been of him. They’d been dedicated to one another for years, and yes, Arthur was hiding something, but he couldn’t tell Eames about it. Not just yet.

 

“Now, listen,” Arthur said, and dammit if his voice wasn’t shrill to his own ears, “there’s a couple hundred people down there that have all come to see you perform, half of them are the Kennedy cast offs, but they’re all waiting to cheer for you.”

 

Eames’ face tightened, and for once his expression wasn’t one of demonstrative emotion but of closed off anger. He shoved Arthur flat on his back using the hand that had been resting so comfortably on his stomach “Tannins?” he demanded.

 

“What is it that you do when I’m down there, playing marionette for the world?” Eames demanded of Arthur’s prone figure, his overly dramatic stage persona back in place. Queen’s English coming off crisp and clear.

 

“Nothing,” Arthur said, and it was really just the years of using sarcasm as a shield that made the response come out less than sincere. “I lay here.”

 

“I know that look,” Eames said with an eyebrow raised high. “You feeling like a brawl then? Come on, hit me.”

 

Arthur spared Eames an unimpressed look and raised his wrist in front of his face so that he could squint at the time. Arthur rolled his eyes and shoved a hand in Eames’ face to thrust him away, ignoring Eames’ indignant squawk of surprise.

 

Below, in the club, the number on stage was just getting ready to go into its final sequence.

 

Showtime.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Arthur surveyed his club from Yusuf’s booth. This rush, this adrenaline that flooded his veins while doing it, _this_ was why he had gotten into showbiz. Arthur took a breath, a genuine smile working its way onto his face. Then he picked up the microphone.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, pausing. His voice rasped lower and the crowd hushed in delighted anticipation. “I give you the one, the only, the incomparable…Eames.”

 

Immediately all the lights in the club flickered and went out. The crowd began to cheer, the thrill building for what was coming next. Lights began to flicker to life on stage, and slower music began to filter in. Fog crawled across the smooth surface of the stage.

 

The spotlight flared to life, almost painful against the stark darkness of before. A lone man stood center stage. He wore loose pants, a tight black sleeveless shirt, and his tattoos seemed to dance in the rotation of stage lights. A fedora was tilted on the man’s head, obscuring his eyes from the crowd.

 

The crowd went mad. This was who they had come to see. This was the man they raved about.

 

Arthur grinned, leaning forward expectantly. His partner was energy and brilliance in its purest form. Two decades since first watching him perform on a stage and he was just as intoxicatingly attractive as that first matinee.

 

Then the music came to life.

 

Out of the shadows of the back of the stage sprung to life six other men, all small and lither than Eames in center stage. Three rushed each side of him, and while they began a steady demonstration of rhythm with their hips Eames alone remained still, one arm still posed on his hip, the other holding the fedora.

 

The crowd dared not to blink, not wanting to miss the moment he came to life.

 

Finally, the chorus kicked in and the man at center stage burst into life. He threw his hands up at the same time as the other boys did and blended seamlessly into the dance routine that he and Arthur had so painstakingly choreographed. At the same time he thrust a hip forward, leering at the crowd.

 

Arthur watched from the wing, mesmerized the same as he was all those years ago when he had first seen Eames dance. They’d been in the same company. They’d danced on stage together, hit it big together, and they’d fallen in love together as well.

 

Their fights had been legendary. Loud and dramatic, they used to be able to have shouting matches up until the instant they went on stage and then they could perform flawlessly before stepping off stage and continuing the argument right where they had left off. The making up after the argument had always been worth it.

 

Arthur had been signed to a contract with a price tag larger than he could’ve imagined, and then…well, life had changed. He’d finished what was necessary and then taken all his money and put it into the club that he still managed and called home. Eames had followed without Arthur ever having to ask.

 

They’d rarely spent a day of their lives apart from one another since then.

 

Eames and the boys whirled through a complicated series of arm movements before dipping low and sliding across stage on their knees then flawlessly jumping to their feet and continuing their choreography. They turned sideways and then Eames was facing Arthur.

 

Arthur knew that the same dopey, dimpled grin that Eames always teased him about would be on his face. He couldn’t help it. The first time he’d ever told Eames how he felt about him it had been by saying: “I’m stupid in love with you.” The words were still true to this day.

 

Arthur nodded to Eames and the other man smiled. But, Arthur realized he was breaking the routine a bit, making small modifications to the dance steps so that he was still facing the wing and Arthur. Before Arthur could raise a questioning brow at his partner the other man raised an arm in Arthur’s direction, gesturing to his ring finger, and mouthed the words of the song right at him.

 

“ _If you like it then you should have put a ring on it_!”

 

“What?” Arthur muttered, he looked over his shoulder to glance at Yusuf but the other man was too busy with lighting cues to even have noticed the exchange. When Arthur looked back Eames was facing the crowd again, displaying his talent for all.

 

Arthur shoved the mystery away as fast as he could, distracting himself by looking down at his watch. If he didn’t start heading upstairs he’d be late. This was one date that he refused to be late for.

 

He moved to the second set of curtains, trying to keep his movements nonchalant. As if by magnetism the next heated beat of dance steps had Eames and the boys turning full circle, hips gyrating, and Eames managed to pin Arthur with a suspicious look. Arthur tried to smile reassuringly.

 

When he finally could, Arthur moved quickly off the wing and turned to hurry up the steps. He tried not to feel guilty, but he didn’t quite manage it.

 

The first of Eames’ numbers faded away and Arthur shook himself. He had other things to worry about.

 

**X-_X_-X**

 

Arthur was rushing past the apartment’s kitchen on his way to his bedroom to fetch a fresh button down when he stopped and backtracked.

 

Nash was doing squats mostly naked in front of the refrigerator.

 

“Is this something I should be concerned about?” Arthur asked wickedly, grinning.

 

Nash stumbled up, tripping ungracefully into the island in the middle of the kitchen. He pouted at having been caught. “I have to stay in shape if you’re ever going to let me be in the show.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry about maintaining your girlish figure then,” Arthur sneered with delight, crossing his arms.

 

Nash picked up the feather duster that was on the counter besides him and brandished it at Arthur. “You know, my parents came here so that I could put my talent to good use.”

 

“Your parents moved to the city from Utica so you can drop the Latin accent,” Arthur said lightly, “You’re very talented with a vacuum and for the minimum living wage you put that talent to extraordinary use.”

 

Nash clutched the feather duster to his chest and made a whining noise. “You’re too mean. Probably means you’re going to die young.”

 

“Nah,” Arthur chuckled, turning to disappear down the hall “Probably means I’ll live to terrorize the innocents for years to come.”

 

“Yay,” Nash mumbled. He pouted at the hallway and turned to begin cleaning up the kitchen,

 

Arthur was back soon enough, buttoning his cuffs as he entered the kitchen. Nash had half a mind to wonder why he was putting on his good onyx cuff links, but figured he wasn’t willing to stretch the line between employed and fired too much in one night.

 

“Take the white wine from the refrigerator,” Arthur began instructing him, taking an ice bucket from an overhead cabinet and setting it on the counter. “Put it on ice and then chill two glasses. After that, take the night off and get the hell out of my apartment.”

 

Nash saluted him and then replied dryly, “Right away, sir, but whatever will I do with all that freedom?”

 

Arthur met deadpan tone with equally deadpan tone. “Keep it up and Eames will find out why his closet mysteriously misses garments.”

 

“I’ll tell him you’re seeing somebody else while he’s on stage,” Nash countered, shaking the wine in Arthur’s direction.

 

Arthur stalled in his excitable movements to turn and give Nash an unimpressed look. “Two words,” he said, “Unemployment. Claim.”

 

Nash made an insulted noise and set the wine in the ice bucket and transferred everything to a silver serving tray.

 

“Now, go. And leave the front door unlocked.”

 

“Bitch,” Nash muttered. When Arthur’s footsteps had faded Nash picked up his iPod and strutted from the room. “It’s you and me tonight, Gloria.”

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Arthur couldn’t help humming as he stepped out onto the pool patio (what Eames insisted they call their ‘lanai’i’ because: “Darling, it sounds _tropical_!”).  He plucked a small lighter off the side table and began to light as many candles as he could fit on its surface. She’d always loved candles, and Arthur would never forget the details when it came to her.

 

He realized he was nervous and it made him grin. He supposed he had the right. He hadn’t gotten a night like this one in what feels like forever. Sometimes, only occasionally, the constant rush of his life made him feel out of sorts. However, it was nights like these ones that put him right back on track.

 

He set the last candle down with a satisfied ‘clunk’ at the same time as he heard a small noise. Arthur cocked his head towards the sliding glass door and waited. If he had been a less composed man he’d be jiggling his leg in ill-contained anxiousness.

 

Arthur wasn’t kept waiting though, a short, gorgeous, and demurely shy woman appeared in sight. She was dressed casually, but the scarf around her neck made her seem elegant and refined for her years. A backpack was thrown carelessly over her shoulder.

 

“Hey,” she said. It was soft, but her smile was getting wider by the second.

 

Arthur didn’t respond immediately. But he met her as she moved out onto the patio. He managed to contain his excitement as he smiled fondly as her, kissing the corner of her mouth and pulling her smaller form against his. He closed his eyes as he relaxed into their embrace.

 

This, the moment he was having right this instant, was why he never cared or looked back on leaving the life he had before the club.

 

This was worth it.

 

Arthur leaned back some, fixing her with an impish grin that she didn’t hesitate to return in style. “You’re looking even more beautiful.”

 

“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. She smiled like she was still pleased with the compliment though, and the way she dropped her shoulder in feigned modesty was something that Arthur had never taught her. That was body language that the other parent that had raised her was responsible for.

 

“You look good, too,” she continued, she poked his torso and strode past him to dump her bag at the leg of one of the pool chairs.

 

“I haven’t made it to the gym in almost three weeks,” Arthur said self-deprecatingly.

 

The woman just fixed him with a look though, reaching down to dip a hand in the pool water. It never changed; the pool was always kept at the same temperature that she’d always preferred. It had always been fitted to her needs and wants.

 

Arthur ran a careful hand along her shoulder, picking up a look of curly, brunette hair. The move was tender, and spoke of deep depths of devotion. She pinned Arthur with a look and Arthur shrugged, a little sheepish at being caught in an act of such whimsy.

 

“I’m glad you grew your hair out,” was all he said to her.

 

She stood and then Arthur realized she had a funny look on her face. She was biting her lip in a way that she almost always never did. Arthur turned to the side so that she couldn’t have a chance to say anything that he might dread.

 

“Are you hungry?” he asked instead “You’ve been travelling all day, of course you haven’t eaten. That absentmindedness isn’t something you got from me!”

 

“I’m not hungry,” she replied softly. She thought it was good to hear the regular things again. The sounds of the city, and the way Arthur always had something to kvetch about in any tense situation. It was home.

 

“A drink then?”

 

“Beer if you have it?” She replied, trying not to sound too insincere in her request.

 

“I do _not_ ,” Arthur scowled at her and rolled his eyes. As if she even should have asked. He moved towards the table where he had painstakingly arranged everything. “White wine?”

 

“Swell,” she retorted, flippantly. She moved awkwardly to sit in the other pool chair, and her odd look and lip biting from earlier returned as she cast a nervous look into the apartment through the sliding glass door. “How long has Eames been on?”

 

“He just started his act,” Arthur replied, his attention focused on pouring the wine perfectly “And I gave Nash the night off. We’re alone, as you asked.”

 

Arthur turned to carefully balance the wine glasses, he handed one to his female companion. He was afraid that he couldn’t stop smiling. He was probably producing those damn dimples that Eames always raved about, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it either.

 

Arthur had reached down to pinch at her chin in a movement born out of routine but she pulled away from the touch.

 

“So, I have something to tell you,” she said. She touched the wine glass to her lips, taking a brief sip. Arthur frowned and sat down and reclined back into the other chair, crossing his legs absentmindedly.

 

“Go ahead,” Arthur said with all the levity of granting a royal pardon.

 

“But I don’t want you to get how you get,” she said heavily. “Eames is right when he says you throw fits.”

 

Arthur froze in all movement. This time the look he gave her was suspicious and sardonic, not fondly bemused. “Oh, God,” he said.

 

She bit the bullet. “I’m getting married.”

 

Arthur immediately sat forward and put a frustrated hand to his forehead, kneading the temple. “Oh, no.”

 

Arthur began shaking his head minutely. “Oh, no no _no_.”

 

“I didn’t want to, uh, tell you over the phone…”

 

Arthur began to take a deep drink of his wine as she continued to talk.

 

“…It’s a boy (at that Arthur tipped the glass straight up) and I—I met him at school.”

 

She stopped her explanation and then said incredulously, “Are you upset?”

 

Before even a breath could be taken Arthur said, “But let me tell you why.”

 

She thought it was a bad sign that he was half grinning mockingly.

 

Arthur stood and she sighed and set the wine glass resignedly onto the patio tile.

 

“First,” Arthur said, gearing up for a world class argument. “You are only _twenty_ years old.”

 

“I _know_ I’m young, dad,” she bit back, always having had inherited his temper, “but it was _you_ that always said I was level headed, and responsible, and smart enough to make choices _just like this one_.”

 

“I have career options already,” she continued, she stood as well and threw her arms out in a gesture that Arthur knew all too well, though normally it was accompanied by some British colloquialism or another, “and I have a plan, and a great role model.”

 

“Flattery,” Arthur warned.

 

“No, look, I’m being serious.” she said. “I was always the only one in my group of friends that never came from a broken home.”

 

“You’re not getting anywhere,” Arthur tried again. He was calmly disinterested on the outside but all synapsis were firing on the inside. Of all the things he had carefully prepared for tonight what had actually been handed to him was probably the one thing he had never expected.

 

Finally she stopped talking and just looked at him. She took two steps forward and then asked, very evenly, “Is this alright?”

 

“Does it matter?” Arthur asked sarcastically. He looked at the pool instead of at his barely twenty year old daughter.

 

“Of course it does,” she ground out hotly. “I want to hear you say that it’s okay, especially before Eames comes back up here and starts hollering and going all sappy and overly _British_ at us.”

 

“I can’t,” Arthur replied, shaking his head, “and I definitely won’t. This is ridiculous.”

 

Her own temper, so like his, sky rocketed further but Arthur just railed over her. “If you do this you’re on your own. Do you understand that? You don’t come back here. You don’t ask for my help. This is not a realistic choice, Ariadne.”

 

She put her hands up and grabbed her bag up; she was a whorl of angry disbelief. “Okay!”

 

“Okay,” Arthur echoed. His control had been tested so much in just this one day that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to call it back. He wondered if he were on time for his mid-life crisis.

 

“Bye, dad,” she stood firm on her ground, staring at him from in front of the patio entrance.

 

Arthur reached out, unable to keep the façade any longer. He wrapped his hands around her and sighed heavily into her hair. “You called my bluff.”

 

“It was good,” she said dryly, shoving him a little “But Eames has always told you that you have a million and one tells.”

 

Arthur tried to chuckle, and then he tried to grumble. Mainly he succeeded into sighing again and running a hand through his hair, forcing it into anxious disarray.

 

“Tell me it’s alright,” she prompted him again. Her voice was faded though, unsure and vulnerable standing exactly as she used to stand as a kid, backpack in hand.

 

“It’s alright, Ariadne,” Arthur said, holding onto one of her hands. His voice was low and absolutely sincere, his face as pleading as he was willing to show. “I always expected this to happen, just not so soon.”

 

Ariadne smiled, almost blindingly bright, and Arthur had to force down his resentment. University had been one thing, but now a husband was going to take his baby girl away too? It seemed like he never stopped losing his daughter, or fighting to get her to stay. Eames told him that he had to accept that their girl was “growing up”.

 

Arthur just figured he should have bought her a chastity belt and some bars for her window.

 

“Drop your bags,” Arthur said, straining for joviality, “stay awhile.”

 

Ariadne did. And the way she looked at him when he filled their glasses with more wine told him that maybe she understood more that Arthur had thought. He swallowed thickly and then raised a glass “Let’s have a drink to this catastrophe,” after Ariadne threw him a sharp look that Arthur _knew_ she had learned from him he was forced to amend, “I’m kidding. Somwhat.”

 

Ariadne sipped her drink. Her shoulders were relaxing with just her standing there. And, Arthur could give her a true smile, a small reserved one, when he saw that because it meant one simple thing.

 

His daughter was home.

 

“What’s the lucky boy’s name?” Arthur asked, feeling his heart break just a little.

 

Ariadne beamed, “Robert.”

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

“Absolutely not! Are you out of your mind?” Maurice’s face flooded puce at just the thought. “You are barely twenty years old!”

 

Robert stared, rather morosely, back at his father. Before he could counter the argument that he knew was going to erupt when he mentioned his engagement his mother cut in in her soft, demure way.

 

“Who is this girl, Robbie? When’s the last time you even saw her?”

 

“Ariadne, and please don’t call be Robbie,” Robert answered back immediately. Then, adopting the dry, robotic tone that his father loathed he reported “The last time I saw her was early this morning before leaving school. We’ve been sleeping with each other for a year.”

 

“Good God!” Maurice exclaimed, throwing a hand up and slamming the book he had been feigning to read onto his desk, “Has she even been tested?”

 

“Maurice!” His mother’s societal, snobbish sensibilities amused Robert at the best of times.

 

“Yes,” Robert but back in, he sat up straighter when his father turned his full attention on him “And so have I. We’re both clean, congratulations.”

 

“Oh!” the fact that is mother managed to have honest to God tears in her eyes when she mocked shock and appall had long been a mystery to the youngest Fischer.

 

Maurice raised an eyebrow at his wife, but rather than going into similar hysterics he just sighed deeply and pegged Robert with a familiar, stern expression. “Look here, this will have to wait until after the elections.”

 

Again, before Robert could have a moment to speak for himself, his mother cut into the conversation.

 

“Where does she come from Robbi—ert,” his mother tried to gesture broadly, “Uh, who is her father?”

 

Robert stole a glance at his father. This is where things got tricky. “Her father’s in the arts,” he replied swiftly, with as little intonation as possible, “He’s on the counsel—the uh, the Counsel of The Arts.”

 

Robert took a breath. Truly, this had been easier in preparation with Ariadne. There had been less anxiety when lounging naked in bed with her than when sitting stiffly in his father’s home office.

 

“The one that’s funded at the Mapelthorpe exhibit?” Robert’s father asked slowly, thinking.

 

Robert knew exactly how he was supposed to answer. His father rarely appreciated true art, and he held the Maplethorpe in low esteem. “Heavens no,” Robert replied, feigning disgust, “He’s, uh, a cultural attaché. A cultural attaché to France.”

 

“Really?” Robert’s mother asked with a delightful smile. For as much as Robert’s father dreamed only of the skyline out his office window, Robert’s mother dreamed of the skylines that she might escape to one day.

 

“What exactly, Robert, is a cultural attaché?”

 

Robert’s mother answered, again, certain that she had every answer that need ever be asked for.

 

“Well that’s,” she paused and waved a hand around as if that could explain it, “well, that’s sort of like an ambassador, it’s rather a diplomatic post isn’t it?”

 

Robert was thankful he wasn’t the one that made it up.

 

His parent’s shared a look of approval (to Robert’s surprise) that was immediately ruined by another of his mother’s questions. “What does her mother do?” she asked.

 

This, Robert knew, was the actual problem. Not to him, of course, and certainly not to Ariadne. But, his conservative, sheltered parents would never accept if he told them the truth.

 

In Ariadne’s apartment that she shared with friends there were plenty of pictures, but there was only one picture that Ariadne ever kept on her nightstand. It was taken at her high school graduation. Robert had first admired it because nestled in between both of her parents Araidne managed to look absolutely delighted, and wonderfully happy and content.

 

The thing was—both the parents in that picture were men.

 

The one on the left had black, slick backed hair. He had an angular look to him, and while he was smiling widely for the entire world to see Araidne had assured Robert that not much got past her father. He was dressed in a businessman’s outfit, though that day his suit jacket was over his shoulder and his sleeves were rolled up to counter the summer heat. He looked the part of the perfectly proud and caring father.

 

The other man had looked like a surrealist idea of cross culture beliefs. He had sunglasses pushed up over dark, sandy colored hair. He had a graphic t-shirt on underneath a wrinkled button down, and while he wore slacks he had a bangle of thick rings and bracelets on his hands and tattooed arms. He was grinning broadly, and his larger, more muscular arms, were clutching Ariadne in chuffed affection.

 

Ariadne had said the second man was “Eames”, and until a while later Ariadne had never explained anything further, though Robert caught her occasionally calling this Eames man ‘Papa Eames’. When she finally had told him more about her family she had explained everything with an air of protective anxiety, as if she dared anyone to try to tell her that her family wasn’t good enough.

 

Robert had loved her even more just for that.

 

So, really, it was with the same idea of protectiveness that he opened his mouth to lie. He wanted to protect Ariadne and her family, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to stand watching his father demean them if he knew the truth. So, yes, Robert said:

 

“She’s a housewife.”

 

He couldn’t breathe even when his mother said brightly “Well that’s refreshing, isn’t it Maurice?”

 

His father grumbled, “I-I can’t talk about this now.”

 

Maurice picked his heavy hard cover tomb back up as the phone range. Robert dived forward to answer it before anyone else could make a move. When his father raised a questioning eyebrow Robert cleared his throat and straightened his shirt before calmly sitting back and answering.

 

“Hello?”

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Ariadne grinned, Arthur standing protectively at her shoulder. “Did everything go alright?” she asked excitedly.

 

“ _Yes, er, ah, everything’s fine. Mmhm._ ”

 

“That’s wonderful,” Ariadne clapped her father on the back before gushing into the phone “I told my father and he’s thrilled, he’s so proud.”

 

Before Arthur could protest she was going even further and saying, “He’d love to talk to you.”

 

This time the look that Ariadne flashed him as she passed the cordless phone over was all Eames’ influence.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

“Aren’t his parents in France right now?” Robert was startled, and turned around to find his father holding up a second phone across the room.

 

“Father!” Robert stuttered, “Get off the phone.”

 

Robert managed to get Maurice to acquiesce by the time a second voice was calmly saying ‘Hello, Robert?’ in his ear.

 

 “Hello, sir,” Robert said at once, years of manners shoving straight to the forefront.

 

“Well, congratulations,” Arthur said into the phone, his voice was stilted but Arthur thought he was being pleasant enough until Ariadne poked him roughly in his side “Shit,” he mumbled, and then hoped the phone hadn’t caught that.

 

“I’m afraid I can’t talk long,” Arthur was already making his excuses, Ariadne rolling her eyes in his periphery.

 

“That’s alright!” Robert said hurriedly, before his father could try to pick up the line again “It was good talking to you. I’m sure we’ll talk again soon. Have a good night, sir. Bye.”

 

Robert could picture Ari’s annoyed look well enough in his head but he had to do something quick to distract his father from his curiosity.

 

“How dare you do that?” Robert stood and demanded, as pompously and angered as he could manage. If he could deter his father from poking holes into Robert’s improvised explanation that it might just save the night some grief.

 

Maurice wasn’t playing with the same rules “You said the girl’s parents were in France.”

 

“They are,” Robert said, quickly and with much less confidence.

 

“You saw this girl just this morning, it’s barely dinner time now, and yet she’s already in France with her parents?”

 

“No,” Robert tried protesting, he slanted his eyes to look helplessly at his mother, “I, uh, France?”

 

His mother nodded.

 

“They’re back,” Robert said at once, trying to salvage as much as he could. “For the summer. They’re at their home in New York. They like the, er, season festivities in the city.”

 

“New York,” his mother tittered excitedly. Robert hoped it distracted his father some. “Oh they must be able to go to all the best events. Are they right in Manhatten?”

 

Robert nodded. He felt exhausted already. “Yes, uh, pretty much,” he replied, “they’re very close to all the best sights.”

 

His mother smiled and looked imploringly at his father. As if a piece of New York society would soothe their Glendale souls. Robert’s father didn’t look too convinced. However, the suspicion wilted.

 

Robert sighed, half in momentary relief and half in renewed panic. He half figured at the rate things were going he and Ariadne would end up eloping and living in a cave somewhere. Maybe Australia, he though. They had plenty of deserted lands they could get lost in.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Arthur was sitting in silence, a rare commodity in his movers and shakers type lifestyle. He’d opened a bottle of red from Chateau Mouton Rothschild in preparation of the headache that was already splitting between his eyes.

 

Arthur had had plans, and then Arthur had had Ariadne thrust into his life. And then…Arthur made new plans. Then Arthur made plans for Ariadne.

 

Marriage wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan, not this early at least.

 

Arthur didn’t doubt that the head on his daughter’s shoulders was filled with integrity and self-confidence, along with a great deal of independent spirit, but he didn’t want her to take on something that she wasn’t ready for.

 

Marriage always went hand-in-hand with children, and new cars, and mortgages, and whole laundry list of items that tended to root a person down whether they wanted to be tied down or not.

 

Arthur may have been twenty-two when his daughter arrived, but he _chose_ the life that accompanied it. He _bought_ that life. When he was given the chance to raise his daughter he had already been making decisions and choices that others his age had never dreamed of. Ariadne was different; not worse, just different.

 

Arthur tilted his head back and closed his eyes, trying to tell himself that since he couldn’t see the stars because of the glare of the city that he was going to imagine them on the back of his eye lids. It was a fair dream, Arthur thought. First time he’d been with Eames it had been beneath the star shaped props that dotted the stage’s backdrop. He’d loved stars a fair amount ever since.

 

It didn’t work though, and Arthur let his eyes lazily rise the next moment. Peace wasn’t a decent prospect for him, at least not right at that moment.

 

Arthur grunted in acute frustration and took a long sip of his wine. If he hadn’t given up smoking when he was thirty he was certain he’d have already lit up by now.

 

The club door opened so fast and with such velocity that it bounced off the wall and sent a resounding _crack_ through the apartment. Heavy footsteps began rushing around inside.

 

Arthur cocked his head towards the patio entrance and raised an eyebrow. Here it comes, he thought apathetically.

 

The steps made their way towards the sliding glass doors and then Arthur watched as Eames stormed out towards the pool, looking positively furious all the while.

 

Arthur noted that he was in a change of costume. That meant that the vaudeville act had gone well. No doubt Eames had had the audience in stitches laughing at his routine. Blush was strewn across his checks and a bright red gloss slapped across his lips. His costume was mid-west fashioned. Cowboy boots being the least of it. Eames had artfully twisted up his flannel shirt so that he looked like some sort of ranch hand hussy.

 

The audience must have _loved_ it.

 

Eames eyes scanned every corner of the patio and when they landed on the half empty bottle of white and Ariadne’s left over glass, lipstick adorned, he screwed his face up in disbelief. “You absolute, sodding arse!”

 

“Is that directed at me?” Arthur queried tiredly, “only, I thought my name was Arthur, so you can imagine that I’m unused to ‘sodding arse’.”

 

“Who is he?” Eames demanded, picking up Ariadne’s glass and slamming it back down again “Or she, actually?”

 

“Just a minute,” Arthur demanded, “hold up.”

 

“Where is the slag?” demanded Eames, his chest puffing out, “I can’t bloody well believe this nonsense. Where are they? You had best tell me right now, Arthur, so help me God I’m going to wrap my hands around their throat and—!”

 

“Oh my God,” Arthur resisted the urge to drop his head helplessly into his hands. “Would you contain yourself for one second of your life? It’s Araidne.”

 

“Ariadne?” Eeames repeated, stopping short. His confusion dampened his previous rage and his back lost its iron, his shoulders slumping.

 

“She’s sleeping in her room if you don’t believe me,” Arthur bit back mulishly.

 

Eames crossed his arms and gave Arthur a bit of a sheepish grimace. “Why didn’t you tell me, love?” he asked.

 

“So I’m ‘love’ now and not ‘sodding arse’?” Arthur muttered, and for the second time that night he tilted his glass up to drain it. “Surprise,” he said humorlessly, loud enough for Eames to hear this time.

 

Eames just slumped against the glass frame of the door, furrowing his brow and thinking a moment before turning back inside. Before he disappeared completely he popped back around to stab a finger in Arthur’s direction, “This isn’t finished, darling.”

 

“Of course not,” Arthur watched his partner disappear back in their house to check on their daughter and couldn’t resist the swell of ridiculous happiness that bubbled inside of him. Only Eames could so thoroughly frustrate him and make him happy all at the same time.

 

As far as Arthur was concerned, the night was a success despite the theatrics. He had all the family he had ever needed back under one roof for the night and that was _smashing_.

 

He left the tray of wines, glasses, and melted ice on the table. Nash could deal with it in the morning.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Eames only stopped on his way to Ariadne’s room to scrub at his face and shove his costume boots hastily into his and Arthur’s bedroom. She was in her bedroom, the bedroom that had always been hers. Two doors down from the master bedroom it was the farthest from the main living area.

 

Eames and Arthur had spent an entire day putting up coats of petal pink paint on her walls once. They had been dismayed when an eight year old Ariadne had walked in, wrinkled her nose (in an Arthur like fashion) and declared “I don’t like pink, I’m not one of _those_ girls.” Little Ariadne had refused to sleep anywhere except the couch until Arthur and he had taken their next free day and covered the pink with lavender.

 

The walls were still the same lavender. Eames applied just enough upward pressure to the door knob when he toed it open so that the hinges didn’t squeak. The room lights were switched off but the city that surrounded them supplied the room with just enough light for Eames to make out that Ariadne was fast asleep in a cocoon of sheets.

 

He shifted his body sideways and inside. Eames had loved this little girl since he first met her. When he’d first laid eyes on her she’d been nothing more than a wrinkled, shrieking bundle in a terrified Arthur’s arms. Eames had thought she’d been the most beautiful thing there could be.

 

Eames stepped further into the room, the plush carpeting swallowing his footsteps. She’d inherited Eames’ own penchant for leaving clothing lying where it landed, so he scooped down and bundled up the laundry strewn across the floor. He moved silently about the room, putting her backpack on a chair, and hooking her coat onto a bedpost.

 

The smile that Eames let spread across his face was genuine. The kind of responsibility a person had to acquire when raising a child had alarmed Eames at first, but now he only felt the usual happiness that she brought out in him.

 

Ariadne had always been the piece of Arthur that Eames had never had to fight for. Her affections had always come freely.

 

Eames bent at the waist and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Ariadne shifted in her sleep, her hand moving to curl over her stomach the same way her father’s did. Eames backed out of the room as softly as he came in. He gripped the laundry tighter and shuffled down the hall to pop it into the machine.

 

His little girl was home.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Arthur was reading the arts and leisure section of the New York Times when he felt eyes on him.

 

“Staring is a form of harassment,” Arthur said dryly.

 

Eames shifted in the doorway but didn’t say anything in reply. His hair was still damp and Arthur could smell the strawberry body-wash all the way where he was reclined on the bed. Eames didn’t look tense, Arthur thought, he was bare-chested and in loose gym pants.

 

Arthur stared right back at his partner for another minute before he dropped his gaze back to the paper. When Eames wanted to speak up he would, of that Arthur was confident. Eames was actually the most silent person Arthur knew. His stage act was loud and dramatic, and so was Eames when he decided to bring the act home with him. But beyond that, Eames was really just a soft and contemplative presence at his side.

 

Eames may have looked at ease in the doorway, but he was anything except. He couldn’t stop one hand from nervously running a thumb over the grooves in the door casing, and he’d obsessively went over the conversation he was nervous about having while in the bathroom, telling his reflection that this couldn’t end well.

 

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Arthur closed the paper, dropping it besides the bed and setting his reading glasses down on the nightstand. He crossed his hands in his lap and relaxed against the headboard. “Well? You’re actually starting to worry me now.”

 

Denying that anything was wrong was on the tip of Eames’ tongue, but he contained the impulse. He’d been working himself up over this ever since the source of his problems had emerged when he was going through their winter clothes in the spare closet looking for an old shirt. He hadn’t found the shirt, but he had certainly happened across something far more surprising.

 

Eames swallowed and honest to God meant to say what was really bothering him but at the last second what popped out of his mouth was, “Why didn’t you tell me Ariadne was coming?”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes and crossed his arms “Ariadne asked if she and I could have some alone time when she came home. She wanted to talk about something.”

 

Eames nodded and swallowed again. Of course the whole night’s event with Ariadne was adding to his stress as well. He leaned off the doorway, walking through and shutting their door while trying not to think about why Ariadne wouldn’t have wanted him around when she got home.

 

Maybe she was just as tired of him as he was worried that Arthur might be.

 

“You’re honestly cut up about something,” Arthur said. He leaned forward on the bed, crooking a knee to lean towards where Eames was standing. His voice went from soft to concerned. “Eames, what’s wrong?”

 

Eames avoided his partner’s concerned gaze; he couldn’t help it. He had never been able to stall the truth or pull the wool over on Arthur when he was forced to look the other man in the eye. It had always been too hard. Too be fair, Arthur usually had the same problem.

 

Arthur’s look turned probing “Babe,” he said, rising onto his knees and reaching off the bed to steady his hands on Eames’ shoulders. He forced Eames to meet his eyes “What’s wrong?”

 

The soft worry and anxiousness that automatically filtered into Arthur’s tone drove Eames mad. It was Arthur’s reaction more than anything else that stowed what he really wanted to talk about. He didn’t want to argue anymore that night with Arthur. So, he breathed in a shaky breath and lied.

 

“Nothing,” he said, just as softly. He reached up and ran a thumb under Arthur’s ear, tracing a path all the way to the lips that he’d been able to kiss every day for over twenty years. “I guess tonight was just more dramatic than I was prepared for, love. And there really was a huge crowd tonight to boot.”

 

Arthur was running nervous circled against Eames’ neck with his thumbs. “Are you sure?” he asked.

 

Eames fixed a crooked grin on his face and closed the distance between them to tug Arthur into a loose embrace “Absolutely.”

 

They were both silent for a moment, and neither of them were commenting on the way they were holding one another. Though, it was apparent to both men that they were both worried about something; though definitely not the same things. Arthur let his head rest on the other man’s shoulder and tried to pretend he wasn’t as worried over what was bothering Eames as he was.

 

Arthur tried to speak, “Hey I have to tell you what Ariadne came to talk about.”

 

“I think,” Eames said, moving back just enough so that he could look Arthur in the face “That I don’t want to talk or think about anything but you just yet.”

 

Arthur would ordinarily push the button on Eames’ statement, not letting the man get away with something as selfish as that. But, tonight Arthur felt like a strange sense of fragility was hanging around them.

 

So Arthur let it go. Arthur let it go and he kissed Eames instead. He kissed his partner of over two decades, the man that had raised his daughter with him, the man that had helped make his dream of the club a reality, and the man that Arthur had been so stupidly in love with his whole life.

 

Arthur smiled goofily when they parted “Sometimes I wish I could breathe you,” he confessed, knowing Eames would understand exactly what he meant by the uncharacteristically sappy statement.

 

Eames did. He wrapped his arms tight around Arthur and then forced the man to lean back until he was off balance enough to tumble them down onto their bed. “Sometimes I think you are what I breathe,” Eames said in reply, he grinned a little and pushed upwards so that he was hovering above Arthur “Sometimes I don’t think oxygen exists when I’m with you.”

 

Arthur laughed softly, as awkward with the emotional confession as he normally was, even after all these years. Eames leaned over and kissed him.

 

On instinct, or years born of similar action, Arthur automatically reached up to grip Eames’ hips, holding them loosely. When Eames let out a pleased noise at this and deepened the kiss Arthur felt arousal begin to flutter through his veins.

 

“You know, we have a daughter in the other room,” Arthur warned. His actions belied his words though because he was already tugging Eames down so that his weight rested on Arthur and they were pressed together.

 

“I can be quiet if you can,” Eames whispered with a grin. Arthur chuckled.

 

“We’ll see.”

 

Arthur ran a hand teasingly down to the drawstring of Eames’ sweatpants, tugging at the strings but making no move to reach down further. Eames made a frustrated noise and Arthur leaned into Eames’ neck to hide his smile. Though, Eames felt it anyway.

 

“I’m not an energetic young man,” Eames warned playfully, “My poor old body might not be able to take this teasing of yours.”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes and hooked a knee around Eames’ waist. “You’re forty six,” he said “That’s hardly decrepit. Although, if you’re feeling too tired then by all means, let’s just go to sleep.”

 

“If I’m too tired to do all the hard work than that just means you’ll have to share the labor, hm?” before Arthur could retort Eames rolled them across the bed, stopping when he was flat on his back, Arthur straddling his hips.

 

Arthur wrinkled his nose, “Lazy.”

 

“Come now, you know you love being in charge, dear.”

 

This time Arthur grinned, and he very slowly, bit by bit, leaned forward until he was close enough to ghost his lips over Eames’, “Oh, I know I do.”

 

Arthur righted himself and tugged his shirt off. After tossing it to the side of the bed he leaned back on his heels so that he could yank at Eames’ sweat pants, and a few minutes later they were both taking in the sight of each other.

 

“Now remember,” Arthur said, trying to keep a straight face, “You promised you’d be quiet.”

 

Eames watched Arthur open the bedside drawer and extract the necessary supplies “Actually,” he said mildly, “I said I could be quiet if you could.”

 

Arthur forewent a reply and instead began attaching his mouth to every pulse point on Eames’ body he could find. By the time he had reached the tender flesh of the inner thigh Eames was panting in earnest.

 

Eames was touch conducive in the same way that Arthur was especially aroused by sound, an observation that Arthur had had years to contribute findings to. So all the while Arthur was trailing his mouth against Eames’ flesh he was running his hands in soothing, tickle-like caresses all the way from Eames’ chest to his stomach and down to grip at his hips.

 

When Eames leaned forward to wrap a hand around the sweat dampened nape of Arthur’s neck, Arthur looked up, somewhat surprised.

 

“I do like foreplay, pet,” the other man said, “We know this as we’ve spent entire days in bed concerning the subject, but right now I would prefer to just have you.”

 

And, well, it wasn’t like Arthur was going to _deny_ him.

 

Arthur fumbled with opening the small foil packet, his arousal was making his hands shake. But he managed to tear it open at about the same time as Eames managed to untwist the cap on the bottle of lube. They both paused, and then in a resurgence of movement they were caught in a tangle of Arthur trying to get the condom on Eames, Eames trying to get the _blasted_ lube tube to cooperate, and the both of them trying to kiss hungrily at one another and get in position at the same time.

 

Eventually things came together and Eames was releasing a low hiss as Arthur all too willingly took Eames’ fingers, carelessly moving his hips to encourage Eames to stretch him faster.

 

“Just--just do it already,” Arthur said impatiently, “ _Fuck_.”

 

“You’re the one calling the shots, love,” Eames managed, though the end of his sentence turned into half a garbled moan as Arthur muttered “Damn straight,” and wrapped one hand around the base of Eames’ cock and the other he used to balance himself as he lowered himself voraciously onto Eames.

 

Eames almost chuckled aloud when euphoria took over and coherent thought bowed out completely. Twenty years in the same man’s bed and the sensations were still breathtaking. They may not be as exuberant as they were when in their early twenties, but the pleasure had only increased over the years.

 

“Perfect,” Arthur murmured, head tilted back. He didn’t even seem aware of the word escaping him.

 

Eames figured that in all fairness he had lied earlier when he told Arthur to do all the heavy lifting because it was his own hands that were reaching out to grip at his lover and it was himself that was thrusting up to set their rhythm. It was he himself who groaned into an upright position so that their bodies could wrap around one another as they surged against each other over and over again.

 

Arthur bit down on the soft flesh below Eames’ ear, his mutter of “ _Yes, yes_ ” disappearing into the Brit’s flesh.

 

More minutes passed and soon the thrusting became less rhythmic and more erratic, Arthur’s pre-come smearing between them.

 

“Love you so much, darling,” Eames choked, and he was sure that his hands were leaving bruises on Arthur. He was gripping him hard enough that it seemed he was afraid the other man would disappear.

 

“You too,” Arthur said, his voice wrecked and sounding guttural, “always.”

 

It was a tribute to what those words did to him that within moment Eames was stilling in an almost ironic way, and falling off the proverbial cliff and into his orgasm. Arthur watched the sight with rapturous selfishness, feeling pleasure bead inside him at the show his partner made. A few uncoordinated movements later and Arthur too was panting with release.

 

They remained like that for a few moments longer. Eventually, though, Arthur forced Eames onto his back, rolling away just far enough to untangle them. He came back though, making sure they were pressed tight against one another. An ocean of space surrounded them on either side, but it was more than intimacy that made it so there was no separation between them.

 

They didn’t say much. Eames preferred to let moments like these be concluded with an exchange of lazy kisses, and normally Arthur couldn’t trust the lack of properly firing synapsis to stop him from speaking and saying something that could potentially he harmful to his dignity. So generally, moments of afterglow like these were emotional rather than vocal.

 

But, Arthur was still mulling over a thought. Even Eames’ particular brand of distraction wasn’t enough to shake it from him mind. Before he could change his mind and rethink his decision he had opened his mouth.

 

“Eames, I’ll be here to listen whenever you want to talk about what was really bothering you.”

 

Eames stilled beside him but didn’t say anything; he didn’t roll away from Arthur either which Arthur counted as a win. Still, it felt like the night’s earlier fragility had returned. Before Arthur could do much else about it, though, he had fallen asleep, sweaty and tired and startlingly content.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 


	2. Chapter Two

**X-_X-_X**

 

“Good morning, Eames!” the open air market (and 'open air' was a term he used lightly; never wasting an opportunity to bemoan the dangers of city smog to Arthur) was filled with similar greetings, Eames had been seeing the same particular vendors every morning for almost a decade and a half, their faces were synonymous with both early morning light and rowdy street hustlers by this point.

 

The shout was one of many and it had Eames turning and craning a neck to look over the crowds towards the bead jewelry vendor that had sing-song shouted his name.

 

“Good morning!” Eames crooned back; he adjusted the silk scarf around his neck. Besides the scarf he wore a light linen shirt and white trousers.

 

He passed a few dozen more people and paused to sigh, “Oh, what lovely orchids,” at the cut flower stand. Alonzo, selling the same sarongs and skirts for near his whole life, waved him over to where he was talking with a customer and Eames smiled and said, “Do go with the aubergine colored, dear” before nodding at Alonzo and sailing past.

 

Morning market had its own routine and Eames was only too happy to perform as expected. Genial gay sensation present and accounted for, something Arthur disapproved heatedly. Arthur called it a ‘stereotype.’ Eames enjoyed the roles he played no matter what they were called.

 

Eames was nearly to his destination when a large brawny arm came at him from his periphery; a lobster in grip.

 

“We got some nice fresh lobsters this morning, Eames!”

 

Eames leaned a hand on Mr. Lopez’s arm, smiling genially, “Not this morning I’m afraid, Mr. Lopez. The sprog is at home!”

 

Mr. Lopez chuckled and sent Eames on his way. Eames hummed, and a few minutes later maneuvered his way into his favorite, stylish, little bakery. The baker, a kindly man who never left his shop for fear of being bereft of the aircon, had offered Eames half price and prompt delivery within the first five minutes of greeting platitudes. Eames had talent.

 

“Now remember,” Eames said, pointing at the man with a very serious finger, “I want it to read ‘To my Darling Sprog, from Papa Eamsie’, yeah? E-A-M-S-I-E.”

 

“No problem, Mr. Eames!”

 

Eames’ eyes drifted down the counter. It seemed cupcakes were the popular treat of the season, at least judging by the colorful displays. Eames smiled to himself. The last time Arthur had attempted to make cupcakes, for a particularly stressful seventh birthday party of Araidne’s, they were so blackened that Eames suggested they used them for Rugby instead. The poor dear did not have baking among his skillset.

 

“I want to get back before she wakes,” Eames excused himself, he knew from experience that if one didn’t stop the baker from prolonging conversation you would still be in the shop in time for tea.

 

“I’ll just try one of these delicious looking nibbles and be on my merry way,” Eames couldn’t help a delighted groan and he waved appreciatively towards the baker as he moved away from the displays and out the door.

 

Well, it _was_ still early. Eames paused and turned back “Well maybe just _one_ more nibble for the road, hm? When the chocolate schneckin beckons…”

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Arthur managed to stumble into the kitchen with his eyes at least mostly open, though his feet were not on board with the plan and he did manage to bump the kitchen island on his way.

 

Arthur cursed, steadying himself and glaring at the empty air that separated him from his usual morning perch.

 

“Well I can tell someone’s awake,” Nash said, sashaying into the kitchen and around to the French press.

 

Arthur glared as scathingly as he could manage in Nash’s general direction.

 

“Is that a ‘Good morning, I regret I haven’t fired you today look’ or a ‘Good morning, did I forgot to kill you look’?”

 

Arthur stared intently at Nash before turning to pick up his paper with an incredulous snort; clearly intimating that he was taking the high road in the situation by not forming a reply.

 

Nash managed to roll his eyes in a direction that his employer wouldn’t see. The general rule in their household had always been that no one should expect evidence of human life before ten.

 

Arthur tightened his robe and opened his paper. His robe had been a birthday present from Eames several years before. Most days Arthur could manage to convince himself that it wasn’t two feet shorter than what was generally appropriate and covered in a gargantuan image of a tiger.

 

After receiving the gift Arthur had attempted to soothingly explain to Eames that they were _in no way_ Siegfried and Roy.

 

“Here,” Nash murmured, leaning over Arthur’s shoulder to hand him a heavy ceramic mug.

 

“What is this? Sludge?” Arthur raised an eyebrow and managed to appear as though the coffee were personally offending him. “Do I pay you to make me sludge every morning?”

 

“Yes, it’s sludge.” Nash said simply, “I thought it’d make a nice change from coffee. I guess you better run down to the Starbucks.”

 

After a moment Nash turned to peer sideways at Arthur, bringing a couple of breakfast bowls to the counter. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Ariadne seeing you last night?” he whined, “I wouldn’t have been so judgmental to you.”

 

Arthur rarely ever felt that he should have to explain himself, especially to Nash, a man from Queens who pretended he was Guatemalan. “Would you put on some clothes?” he replied instead, sloshing his coffee to motion at Nash’s once more naked chest and cut jean shorts.

 

“Why won’t you let me be in the show, Mr. Arthur?”

 

Arthur didn’t reply (probably hadn’t even paid attention) and Nash continued “Is it because you’re afraid of my Guatemalan-ness?”

 

Arthur’s brow furrowed expectantly, “You’re _what_?”

 

“My Guatemalan-ness,” Nash waved a hand at his unclothed torso, “My natural heat. You’re afraid I’m too primitive to be on the stage with your estrogen rockets and your twink platoon.”

 

Arthur slowly turned to peer at Nash “And tell me, Nash, do you consider Eames one of the ‘estrogen rockets’ or one of the ‘twink platoon’? Because I have to tell you, I think his body may have missed the message on the first and Eames seems to have missed the cut off age on the second. _You’re not Guatemalan._ ”

 

Nash was saved from being forced to reply by Eames’ timely return.

 

“You-hoo, darling,” Eames called, appearing in the doorway with his arms full of market purchases, “It’s the bag lady!”

 

“Prada or Gucci?” Arthur quipped, already knowing what the answer would be.

 

Eames wrinkled his nose, “Italian knockoffs.  Louis Vuitton is made in France, and as much as it pains me to praise the French: there we are.”

 

Arthur smiled. The simple joke probably shouldn’t make him as ridiculously happy as it did. He was hard pressed to care though. Twenty years ago Eames walking through the door to announce he was _home_ was a dream Arthur never fooled himself into having. Amazing thing was that it had eventually become his reality.

 

"Good morning, Nash," said Eames lightly, dropping all of his morning purchases onto the counter. "Wash those will you? They're delivering the rest ‘round noon."

 

Nash sighed and began examining the bags. His employers had a tendency to pretend that they could cook, or actually prepare meals. Nash began washing the produce, but when he pulled out three heads of cabbage, one after the other, he threw up his hands and turned back to the coffee machine.

 

"Good morning." Eames trilled lightly, this time to Arthur, leaning across the counter to peck the other man on the cheek. Arthur leaned forward as far as he was willing to, yawning into the embrace. “My God,” Eames said, grinning, “That stubble! Truly this must be a sign of the apocalypse to come.”

 

Arthur, who only had a day and a half worth of stubble on his face, gave his partner a withering look. The Englishman may look happier than he had in days but that didn’t mean that Arthur should have to break the ‘before ten o’clock’ rule.

 

Nash handed a mug of coffee off to Eames and stumbled a bit when Eames grinned brightly and said “Thank you, dear.”

 

After a moment’s noisy sip (Arthur steadfastly attempted to ignore it all) Eames made a contented noise and murmured “Turkish coffee,” in a tone of exaltation.

 

Nash snorted and shot Arthur as dirty a look as he dared “See?” he asked, turning back to the sink with a grumbled “ _sludge”_ under his breath.

 

“Is Ariadne awake yet, love?” Eames inquired of his partner. He wrapped both hands around his mug and leaned back against the kitchen island, angling his body towards Arthur.

 

Arthur turned the page of his newspaper, making a grunt of negation.

 

Eames didn’t seem to notice the brutish behavior, merely cocking his head sideways with a genuine look of sympathy “Poor girl must have been exhausted.”

 

Eames’ eyes slid sideways to look at Arthur, “You should have told me she was coming last night, you caused a right fuss with your need for secrecy,” Eames shook his head, setting his coffee on the island and declaring dramatically, “Truth is you loathe to share your daughter with me, Arthur.”

 

Arthur continued to read. There was a _fascinating_ article about the plumber’s union. _Fascinating_.

 

Eames attached himself to the basket of freshly dried laundry awaiting him across the room and picked one of Ariadne’s shirts up to fold, smiling fondly. “Would you look at this? Threadbare, this shirt is. No matter how many shirts I send that girl she only wears this one.”

 

Eames turned to shake the purple Henley in Arthur’s direction and seemed to notice his lover’s facial expression for the first time. What he had initially took to be the usual cross morning behavior was very obviously something more. Eames set the shirt down and put a hand on his hip.

 

“You have circles darker than kohl under your eyes,” Eames declared, gesturing accusingly “and your brow is furrowed even deeper than normal, positively canyon-like.  What’s wrong, darling?”

 

Arthur summed up all the miserable thoughts that had been plaguing him all morning and expelled them in one flat sentence. “Ariadne’s getting married.”

 

Nash turned around at once but it seemed as if Eames hadn’t even heard the sentence.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eames said airily, he waved a hand and continued a train of thought from earlier “I picked up a chicken to roast for dinner, Ricky said a garlic sauce would be all that would be needed…”

 

Arthur slid off his stool and grabbed up a small orange pill bottle by the sink. It was probably amazing that he had only needed to start blood pressure medication this year. Any second now…

 

“Married?” Eames demanded, turning back to the rest of the kitchen inhabitants, “What do you mean _married_?”

 

“You know what I mean,” Arthur said tiredly, his expression resigned.  Nash handed him a glass of water and Arthur downed his pill.

 

“I don’t understand. She’s twelve.”

 

“Yes you do too understand. She’s twenty, no matter what we pretend. And let’s face it, she’s more grown up than anyone we know and we’ve been letting her drink since she turned eighteen.”

 

“No!” Eames’ jaw was working furiously. He stared at Arthur, wordlessly demanding answers.

 

“Some boy she met at school,” Arthur said dismissively, sitting back down.

 

Eames realized the ramification of what Arthur was saying and put a hand to his face, “Oh no,” he groaned. “But, she’s just a girl still, she’s too bloody young! This will ruin her life. Or mine.”

 

Arthur was glad that Eames shared his opinion but he leaned forward seriously and said, “Listen, we’ve been through all that, alright? The bottom line is she’s getting married no matter what we say, so the less said: the better.”

 

Nash was gaping at them both.

 

Eames began sucking in great shuddering breaths in exaggeration “Just this morning I was feeling so good, and now…” he trailed off and clutched at his chest, closing his eyes with an air of great theatrics.

 

“Just breathe,” commanded Arthur without much empathy. “Let it go.”

 

The door across the room opened and the girl now entering knew what was happening immediately. “Oh,” Ariadne said dryly, looking at Eames’ display, “You’ve heard the news then.”

 

Eames immediately quieted his gasping breaths and focused in on Ariadne. “Oh, Ari,” he said, “This is quite the shock isn’t it? I’m not saying a word! I promised your father.”

 

Ariadne pulled the refrigerator door open. She thought there wasn’t a chance in hell of Eames not sharing his opinion. She pulled a carton of juice towards her and sighed. It was never an uneventful day at home that was for sure.

 

“—but you’re only twenty,” Eames was continuing, “and if you throw yourself away on some dormitory slag, you’ll be inconsolably regretful for the rest of your life. There! Enough said.”

 

Ariadne closed the refrigerator and shared a look with her father. There were literally no words than could be said in response to a statement like that.

 

Ariadne took a great gulp from the orange juice carton and rolled her eyes when Nash immediately took offense and made shocked, reproachful noises while handing her a glass. Ariadne raised a brow, an expression she’d learned from her father, and held the glass uselessly. Nash didn’t get the point; it’s not like she wanted a _whole_ glass.

 

Eames was managing to continue the conversation all by himself. “Well don’t just stand there,” he said finally, opening his arms, “A kiss would be much appreciated. Children these days can’t even greet a person properly anymore, I swear…”

 

Ariadne had to smile tiredly at that, putting the juice on the counter she crossed the kitchen and into Eames’ waiting arms. She wrapped her arms as tight as she could around his middle, laying her head on the shoulder she was still too short to reach fully. “Hello, Eamsie,” she murmured.

 

Eames smiled contentedly back at her, his eyes flickering over to Arthur’s. Arthur was staring at them, his face mirroring Eames’ and he didn’t deny Eames the wordless message that he was glad at the sight that Eames and Ariadne made together.

 

“Darling,” Eames put a hand to his chin and huffed tragically, “Our little girl is going to leave us, and we won’t have any others.”

 

“Not without a miracle,” Arthur agreed.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

_”Now when I and Senator Fischer founded the Coalition of Moral Order we stool stalwart in the idea that government should run on more than a political view! But should depend on morals…”_

_“I think what Senator Jackson is trying to say…”_

_“—Abortion and the devils work! American morals…”_

_“—Same-sex marriage!”_

_“Pornography would not exist!”_

 

Maurice Fischer, leaned forward towards the dining room television with interest, licked his lips in an anticipatory gesture when his own face appeared on screen.

 

“It’s a wonderful show,” Margot Fischer said, with as much feeling as she could interject into the words. Personally, she thought that all the shouting made for frankly unintelligible conversation.

 

“It’s the most brilliant show on television today,” Maurice declared with what Margot considered a sigh of completion.

 

_“…this is why politicians make laws to protect us. That’s why both houses are now Republican.”_

 

Maurice grinned and turned the television off before the democratic guest panelist could voice his objections.

 

“Bravo,” Mrs. Fischer tried to smile at her husband, “It’s the perfect platform.”

 

“Yes. I’m so glad I got on Browning’s bandwagon instead of Dole’s,” he shook his head with an air of degradation, “Dole is just so…”

 

Margot nodded, “Dark.”

 

“Well, I was going to say _liberal_ but he’s dark too.”  Glancing back down at the large bill draft Maurice went on to grumble, “I should fire that woman.”

 

Margot nodded but her mind was elsewhere. Making a decision she leaned forward and put her head in hand, “You know this young woman that Robert wants to marry,” she began.

 

“Ah, Miss. Porter,” Maurice interrupted without acknowledging his wife. He held his digital voice recorder up to his mouth and slid his reading glasses down his nose to examine the draft in front of him. “Section two, third paragraph: it’s ‘porno’ not ‘pronto.’” Senator Fischer shook his head and mumbled something intelligible about his secretary’s idiocy.

 

“I wonder if he’s old money,” Margot asked, speaking as soon as her husband lowered his device “I just mean; a _cultural attaché_.” She gave Maurice a significant look as if her emphasis on the last words should mean something in particular.

 

The door to the kitchen swung open and a matronly woman in a maid’s uniform stuck her iron grey head out. “Senator Fischer, your campaign manager is calling. He says he’s _got_ to talk to you.”

 

“Thank you, Bridgette,” Maurice dismissed Margot’s words, picking up his draft to continue to study as he made his way distractedly to the phone. “You know,” he said over his shoulder “This new manager always has something to ask. I knew we shouldn’t have hired a Methodist.”

 

Margot stirred honey into her tea and wondered if it were warm enough outside to escape the house and sit by the lake for a few hours.

 

“Hello, Benjamin,” Maurice picked up the phone and prepared for any and all inane chatter his manager could come up with that morning. He furrowed his brow “Ready for what?” he asked.

 

A few moments later: “ _What_?”

 

“What’s the matter, Maurice?” Margot called.

 

“Browning’s dead.”

 

Ben was still talking in his ear. “He died in bed?” Maurice confirmed, steeling himself. “Who’s bed?”

 

“A prostitute?”

 

“No!” Margot declared, appalled. She raised an eyebrow at her saucer, she never thought old preacher turned politician Browning would have it in him.

 

“A minor? Black?”

 

Margot’s eyes went wide and she set her tea down as Maurice turned back towards the dining room, livid. She was enthralled.

 

“I don’t believe this!” he declared, “I don’t fucking believe this!”

 

Maurice stamped along the wooden floorboards until he was breathing and leaning heavily on the dining room table. “I’m ruined!” he raged.

 

“Maurice,” Margot rushed to console him “Now, you cannot be held accountable for Senator Browning’s private life.”

 

“Margot! I am the vice president for the coalition for moral order! My co-founder has just been found dead in the bed of an underage black whore!”

 

Margot didn’t have anything to respond.

 

“Now just wait until the media gets a hold of this!” he shook his head in outrage and astonishment “Bridgette!” he shouted. Declaring, “I could really use some candy!” when she opened the kitchen door wide enough to be seen.

 

“Maurice, you want one of these?” Margot hurried to consolingly hold up a centerpiece dish of jelly sweets.

 

Maurice calmed somewhat and then grumbled and took a sweet.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

“My darling little girl!” Arthur heard the exclamation from his position all the way on the other side of the room, and he rolled his eyes at the exaggerated sniff that was given afterwards.

 

Arthur sighed and set his fingers back to their correct keys. When the bridge picked up he leaned further into the piano, singing softly along. There was something disconcerting about his latest draft of the lyrics. If he could just figure out what it was...

 

_"Why does this seem so real to me..."_

 

Eames lifted the silk embroidered handkerchief to his eyes and wiped at them. He was flipping through one of his most sacred possessions: the scrapbook he’d kept of Ariadne from the moment Arthur had brought her home to her high school graduation. He turned a page and went from chubby newborn pictures to cute toddler smiles.

 

“Oh!” he exclaimed. A few moments later a picture of Ariadne holding up brand new dress shoes and smiling gap toothed at the camera sent him further into well-acted mourning. He dabbed primly at his eyes.

 

Arthur sighed. He carefully took his hands of the piano and turned to look over his shoulder. “Eames, _please_ , you’re driving me crazy,” Arthur shook his head. He didn’t have to work out all the kinks on his current piece that instant, but, well…Eames and he both had their versions of stress management.

 

“I know, darling, truly,” Eames muttered brokenly. He briefly turned to look back over his shoulder as Arthur began playing once more. He sent him a mostly scathing look that was meant to convey that Eames thought Arthur should be sitting weeping alongside him. Then Eames flipped another page.

 

 “Oh, the girl scout troop,” Eames said, smiling morosely down at the book on his lap. “Look at her in her little scarf. Ari only lasted three weeks before she hit that Becky Masters girl.” Eames paused, “I daresay the little bint deserved it. Look at her mother standing there in her boyfriend’s _wife’s_ jewelry. Oh! Ariadne is so much better than any of these rotten people.”

 

Eames flipped yet another page and began speaking again as if Arthur were beside him. He even raised his voice louder as Arthur followed a coda into a third verse.

 

“Look, there’s the bat mitzvah…” Eames broke into fresh mutterings. The photo was one of his favorites. Arthur was standing proudly beside Ariadne, his arms around her shoulder in clear pride. Ariadne looked as if she still wasn’t sure she had done everything right (which Eames didn’t blame her for, for God’s sake the _memorization_ alone…) but Arthur’s easily noticeable boastful smile had reassured her.

 

Eames sighed again, and this time his words weren’t a wail or a faked sob. “Time passes so quickly,” he whispered. Arthur continued to play.

 

_“What if this dream turns out to be…”_

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

_“Well he looked kinda funny, but he was smiling so I didn’t worry.”_

 

“How do they get them on so quickly?” Margot asked. She was looking disbelievingly at the television. She and Maurice were still seated at the dining room table.

 

“They pay,” scoffed Maurice. He opened another bakery box and took a piece of the fudge inside. He popped it in his mouth and rolled his eyes when the news anchor began to wax poetic about children forced to live on the street.

 

“They’re not mentioning you much.”

 

Maurice shook his head. His facial expressions were ranging from cynical to maniacal. “It’s early,” he reassured her definitively.

 

_“Senator Browning’s last words tonight on Inside Addition!”_

 

Hours later a storm outside, one having nothing to do with the grey clouds or the summer heat, was beginning to form in earnest. Reporters, news vans, and quick stepping cameramen were pushing every boundary of the Fischer estate. They hoped to catch a story that would add even more fuel to the Browning fire.

 

“Okay, get this shot over here!”

 

“—I don’t know if our best bet is the main door. What if—?”

 

“That ass from Fox News is—!”

 

“—Did I tell you to start rolling? No!”

 

The Sheriff, who’s duty it was to dispel the trespassers, was quoting Browning’s call girl with the local news crew. “He looked kind of funny. But he was smiling….so I didn’t worry!” The group dissolved into chuckles and guffaws.

 

Above all their heads Margot eyed the gathered masses distastefully.

 

Robert trudged from his bedroom, bedecked in a college football shirt and drawstring shorts, and appeared in parent’s bedroom doorway just as his mother was pulling a shade closed.

 

“Where’s father?” Robert asked. He hadn’t been too concerned with the crowd gathered out front. He’d had far more important things on his mind, and engaging in his father’s politics had never seemed ideal to Robert. Even now his mind was half occupied trying to remember if he’d shaved yet that day.

 

“He snuck out this morning,” Margot answered. She was clearing all the white boxes off each of the three dressers and upending them in the trash. Almost absently she added, “He needed to meet with his advisors. They refused to come here; can’t imagine why.”

 

“Mom,” Robert tried.

 

“I never should have let him go,” Margot continued. She found a bag of jellies stashed behind the Hemingway novellas and sent the whole bag into the bin with a glare “After all, how will he get back in?”

 

Robert rubbed the back of his neck and walked further into the room, eyeing the floor speculatively. “Mom,” he tried again.

 

“Mm Hmm?”

 

Robert tried to sit on the bed’s edge and relax backwards but after a moment succumbed to the knot his stomach and just sat up. “I have something to tell you about Ariadne’s parents.”

 

He’d taken the plunge this far. Robert had no choice but to go all the way. He figured that if he were going to marry he should probably find a way to stand up to his parents as well.

 

Margot completely misunderstood Robert’s anxious tone. Her mind immediately jumped to nervous socialites and neo-liberal economically minded oil tycoons. “Oh,” she paused in what she was doing and straightened “They can’t blame us for this,” she said reassuringly “Peter Browning was a common redneck; we had nothing to do with him socially.”

 

“He was my godfather,” Robert pointed out unhelpfully.

 

“Thank goodness these people aren’t snobs,” Margot continued. She’d opened her arms to gesticulate further but behind them came an impatient rapping. They both turned to eye the window quizzically. Margot jumped and exclaimed in surprise and Robert’s face twisted up in confusion.

 

Maurice was at the window.

 

Margot rushed forward and Robert moved to help his mother lift the window. Margot immediately began to grab at Maurice’s suit, tying to help him inside but not succeeding in much else but causing wrinkles.

 

Maurice’s face turned puce as he groaned and struggled his way through the window. Robert could assume that his father rarely took to using the congressional gym when he was on Capitol Hill.

 

“What are you doing?” Margot demanded.

 

“I came through the Orchard,” Maurice huffed in reply. Robert hurried reached out an arm to brace Maurice until he was steady on his feet, “And over the top of the barn.”

 

“That’s so dangerous,” Margot said disapprovingly. “You could have fallen.”

 

“I did!”

 

Maurice sighed and stood to take his suit jacket off. Robert thought his father looked a wreck, but doubted if the other man would ever be willing to admit it. “This spurious idiocy is all anyone can talk about.”

 

Robert doubted if Senator Browning’s scandal was ‘spurious’ in origin.

 

“Maurice,” began Margot, immediately moving to follow Maurice when he took off through the bedroom in a frenzied march. “If we can manage it I think there may be a solution.”

 

Margot turned to grin over her shoulder at her son and smiled confidently at him as the family moved down the bedroom hallway.

 

“What? Death?” Senator Fischer snorted. “Didn’t work for Peter Browning.”

 

“What about a wedding?” suggested Margot “A big, white, page six wedding?”

 

“What do you mean? What wedding; who’s getting married?”

 

Robert caught on and moved to lean forward towards his father. Maurice caught on quickly. “No,” he groaned dismissively. He bent to loosen his tie and splash water on his face in the bathroom sink. “No,” he repeated.

 

“Why not?” Margot demanded back imploringly. “It would restore your image. A wedding is hope. And a white wedding is family, and morality, and tradition. It would be such a special marriage. I mean, the daughter of a cultural attaché, a diplomat really, who doesn’t look down on us because of Senator Browning. One who’s willing to join our family. There’s the cover of People, Time, and Newsweek right there!”

 

Robert figured his mother shouldn’t have given up her career in publishing for the role of demure housewife and mother. He thought the former suited her better.

 

Maurice began hesitantly nodding his head as he dried his hands. He looked as if he were genuinely considering his wife’s words.

 

“Love and optimism versus cynicism and sex!” his mother pushed “It would be an affirmation! If necessary we’ll get the Pope’s blessing; it’s not hard.”

 

“I know,” Maurice grumbled out, “But he’s too controversial. What about Billy Graham? No. Too liberal. Where’s the candy?”

 

“You’ve had enough candy!” Margot snapped, following right on Maurice’s heels as he left the room.

 

As they re-entered the bedroom Robert’s mother turned a demanding stance his way. “This boy—what’s his father’s name?”

 

“Arthur,” Robert confessed tentatively, “Arthur…Harper.”

 

Margot’s eyes narrowed “Really? I wonder if they’re related to Tish and Barty  Harper. From Boston? That’s a celtic name I believe.”

 

Robert knew Tish and Barty. Robert knew that Tish and Barty enjoyed the occasional whip and/or riding crop as well, as had been revealed during a scandal that managed to make page four of The Boston Herald. It was not the best direction for his mother’s mind to have turned.

 

Robert coughed. “No, no…definitely not.”

 

Margot spread her hands wide; another problem had been averted to her. She turned, semi-victoriously, back to Maurice. “Well I think we should go to New York immediately. We should have dinner and…”

 

Maurice was digging through the bin and pulling the bag of jellies up onto his desk. “For God’s sake,” Margot muttered. She forced the bin out of Maurice’s hands and then continued her thought.

 

“We should have dinner with the Harpers,” she repeated, “and then we should spend the night with the Trumps. Donald’s been insisting that you stop by anyway.”

 

Margot turned back to Robert and he tried to grin back reassuring at his mother, who was still holding the garbage bin. She declared triumphantly to the room “It’s perfect! Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Harper of New York and France.”

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Staccato piano notes found Arthur’s gaze being attracted to the stage and the dancers that were upon it. Arthur’s eyes began at the sturdy, heeled dancing shoes and followed long, shapely, stocking clad legs up to meet a powerful set of thighs and eye attracting hips. Moments later Arthur’s eyes were drawn upwards even further and he met Eames’ eyes with an interested grin.

 

Eames rolled his eyes back at Arthur and made an impatient noise. He brought his hands up to start the first movement of the song, a microphone firm in his grasp.

 

Arthur had written the piece they were currently practicing on little more than Doritos and rum. He’d had sudden inspiration and his hard work had paid off with the interpretive ballet routine that Arthur hoped to add electric guitar to later. Eames had seemed thrilled with the idea at any rate, and finding a muscular young man who had failed enough Chorus Line auditions that they could pay him almost pennies had been easy enough too.

 

Because, really, this was New York.

 

The bridge began and Arthur watched Eames’ arms form perfect gestures. His own arms twitched every now and then. His concentration rooted so hard on the form that his own body urged to stand up and practice the routine as well.

 

“What is this dream?” Eames began. Lyrics had always been easy enough for Arthur, and if Eames disagreed with anything he’d normally just sing it his own way anyway. Two more lines and Eames’ dance partner for the song had been cued in.

 

The man in question came onto the stage in what were supposed to be graceful swooping gestures, the perfect slow build to a sweeping crescendo, but instead were halfhearted gallops. He was also wearing sunglasses, on stage, inside, during a practice he was getting paid for.

 

Arthur put a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. It may be a one o’clock rehearsal for a drag performance at a gay club, but did he have to show up hung over?

 

Eames gave a slow circle, and then a quick twirl and Arthur’s eyes were drawn back to the star of his show. The red silk, tied like a skirt at Eames’ waist, highlighted just how elegant and graceful Eames’ movements really were but Arthur was focused on the cadence of Eames’ voice. Perpetually rich and soothing, it was a part on its own of Eames that Arthur had fallen in love with.

 

Breaking character for just a moment Eames skipped over a few more movements and jerked his microphone three times at his dance partner while saying “Fairy dust, fairy dust, fairy dust.” It preluded the next moment when his dance partner was supposed to rise from a graceful crouch and join Eames in a mirror of his movements.

 

Also the part that Arthur wanted to add the song’s first strums of electric guitar.

 

“Don’t be afraid, don’t fade away!” Eames continued his melody but the hung-over dancer was missing all of his cues, and moving lazily. Arthur was considering holding a match to the kid and seeing if he could light fire on the alcohol fumes alone.

 

Arthur opened his mouth to shout ‘cut’ but Eames beat him to it. “Ah!” Eames yelped, “Don’t think I bloody well didn’t see that!”

 

Arthur raised an eyebrow and leaned forward on his elbows as Eames turned towards the seating area, a million words a minute already coming from his mouth. “This is simply impossible,” he declared. One silver heeled shoe of his began to tap expectantly on the stage “Either I’m an artist or I’m a soho neglected drag queen who’s playing it straight to get laughs from lushes.”

 

“Let’s just try to get through the song and blocking,” Arthur leaned back on his chair. He’d end up having to fire the kid before Eames killed him most likely.

 

“You demand far too much,” Eames lectured, sotto. “I’m the only one expected to rehearse as we do and bugger if I besmirch even so much as _note_! I have to give a full on performance yet all the others can just lollygag through it. For Christ’s sake, darling, he’s chewing gum. Like a cow.”

 

“Hey! Gum helps me think!”

 

A pause. Then Eames turned a truly belittling glare on the kid. “Mate, you are wasting your gum.”

 

Ariadne appeared at Arthur’s shoulder. He gave her a small smile as he stood and called “Let’s take it from the bridge once more!” to the stage. If he could mainline some coffee he just might be able to survive the afternoon.

 

Ariadne took a seat at the table his notes were scattered across and before doing likewise Arthur made sure to add “And no more talking—from anyone,” in afterthought.

 

“I need to talk to you,” Ariadne whispered in an undertone.

 

Arthur shushed her, his focus on the stage as the piano began once again. “You want a drink?” he asked distractedly. Ariadne blew out a huff of air in response. Arthur smiled like that was a logical response and patted the side of her head. He picked up his pen and was focused again the next moment.

 

Ariadne felt the panic begin welling well past the stage of ‘balloon’ and settle in the ballpark of ‘zeppelin’. She had barely gotten the courage up to descend the stairs and try to talk to her dad, now his brush off was making it even harder for her to get even a sound out.

 

She looked towards the stage in an effort to calm herself. Eames was a vision as always. When she had been a little girl Eames used to spend hours letting her trot excitedly all around the stage after him. He never denied her, and no matter what rehearsal he was supposed to be going through he’d always break from it to play along to the music with her.

 

Knowing what the man had done for her, how he had raised her, and how he was a parent to her, made what she had come down the stairs to say all that more nauseating. He _had_ to understand though. And he’d definitely understand if it came from Arthur, right? She hoped.

 

“Tell me my dream, are you a dreamer?” Arthur broke from watching the song as he processed what Ariadne had asked moments ago.

 

“What is it?” he hissed quietly.

 

“Will you come upstairs with me?” Ariadne felt beads of sweat forming on her brow. She hoped they could have this conversation in the anonymity of their home.

 

“What? No,” Arthur shook his head and pinned Ariadne with a steady stare. Rehearsals were effectively ‘work hours’ and they always had been. While Eames had indulged her Arthur had laid out rules that only trigonometry homework ever took precedence over ‘work hours’. “I’ve got to do this, no, please, not right now, Ari.”

 

Having been dismissed Ariadne nodded once, jerkily.

 

“Arthur!” the shout had all heads turning towards the stage where Arthur could just catch the kid’s receding blown bubble. “Did you see what he just did?”

 

Ever one to defend one’s lover’s honor Arthur said, “What did he do now?”

 

Eames took a moment to say “Hello, Ari darling,” before jabbing a finger into the kids face and scowling at Arthur. “He blew a bubble, with his blasted gum, while I was singing. This plonker of a conservatory drop out can’t do that when I’m _singing_!”

 

“Okay,” Arthur began, thoroughly annoyed. He began walking to the stage, looking more like he were staking prey, pinning the kid he hired with a look of disdain and desperation. “I know this is a drag show,” he said first gesturing to the club and then gesturing to Eames with a demonstrative eyebrow raised, “But it still has to be a good drag show. Even a great drag show, if possible.”

 

“Yes,” Eames interjected his agreement and his two cents, “And just because you’re twenty-two and hung like a Clydesdale doesn’t mean—,”

 

“Eames, babe,” Arthur said as placating as he could manage, “would you let me handle this?”

 

“Fine,” Eames tossed his hands up and stalked to the other side of the stage, his shoes clacking with every step “You’re the director. But I don’t have to remind you that the couch is damnably lumpy, and horrendous to sleep on.”

 

Arthur rubbed at his temples and tried to ease the tension that had settled there.  “Thank you, that couch was three thousand dollars, if I remember correctly.”

 

“This is a complex number,” Arthur tried to explain. The kid seemed unable to keep his head raised for long, though, and settled for staring at Arthur’s shoes while Arthur talked, “filled with mythic themes. The woman who is singing invented you; you are her dream. Suddenly, you, the dream, see her, the inventor, and become her reality. She, in turn, becomes your own dream.”

 

“…I don’t think I get it.”

 

“Try more gum,” Eames called dryly.

 

“Eames,” a note of warning was in Arthur’s voice. Eames nodded in acknowledgement and wandered lackadaisically towards the piano.

 

As Arthur left their table for the stage, no doubt prepared to do some micromanagement, Ariadne couldn’t help but feel as if she were on a sinking ship. All the noises of the club preparations faded from around her and she began making her way towards the back stairs as quickly as she could.

 

Looking down at the club as she ascended the stairs she could fathom no idea for how she was supposed to introduce Robert and his family to her own. They would definitely not understand.

 

Even from her vantage point on the stairs she could clearly see the image of what Robert’s family would see. A forty two year old gay club owner for a father, and a forty six year old drag queen for a mother; it was a setting they wouldn’t comprehend. How was she supposed to share her life with them? She knew it was unconventional, but it was her _family_.

 

Arthur caught her staring down at them as he tried to manhandle the hired dancer onto his marked stage position. Something chaotic must have shown on her face because he stilled in his movements. After a moment of staring, Ariadne quietly continued making her way to the apartment.

 

Back on the stage Eames was far from hiding his loathing as the hired help asked obvious question after obvious question to Arthur.

 

“What am I supposed to do, just stand here?”

 

“No,” Arthur responded, his voice trying to remain calm even as his jaw tightened in frustration.

 

“It’s called acting,” Eames muttered.

 

Both of them ignored him.

 

“You do a myriad of celebrations,” Arthur urged. “You do a courante! Or Zambra, or even a jazzy swing routine, I don’t care. Martha Graham if you want. Or Madonna. But you keep it all _inside_.”

 

Eames watched Arthur act out each of the dances with amusement. He doubted if the novice kid knew anything about any of the dances, or Martha Graham for that matter. But Arthur had excellent control and form and could do any of the dances. And Eames thought he was just as talented at performing them as he had been in the days he actually danced under stage lights.

 

“Practice,” Arthur ordered over his shoulder, before either of them could protest he was taking the stairs three at a time and heading towards the apartment.

 

Eames pinned his dance partner down with a look of condescension. “So where did you go to dance school?”

 

“I’m self-taught!” the kid declared back proudly.

 

Eames rolled his eyes and motioned towards the pianist, taking his place on stage. “Oh, really? I wouldn’t have ever noticed.”

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

“Well?” Arthur demanded. He entered the room at such a high pace that he had to backtrack when he realized that Araidne wasn’t much further than to the side of the doorway.  She had a look of unabridged horror on her face.

 

“ _Are you pregnant_?”

 

“What?” Ariadne’s face scrunched up in revulsion. “Dad, seriously? Do you even know how many free condoms you can get at sch—?”

 

Arthur raised a hand to silence her. “Not necessary.”

 

“I can’t believe you thought I was pregnant.”

 

“Says the daughter that told her father she was getting married at twenty.”

 

“Well, true,” Ariadne admitted after a beat.

 

Arthur rolled up his shirt cuffs, shutting the door in the process. By the time he had turned back to face Ariadne again her momentary distraction had faded and apprehension had returned.

 

“Are you going to spit it out?” Arthur asked in the same tone he had asked ‘Did you knock over and break the Kenyan fertility statue?’ when she was a kid. She had.

 

“Robert and his parents are coming tomorrow.”

 

Arthur’s eyes went wide with momentary surprise but the crease in his forehead smoothed with relief. “Is that all?” he said offhand. “Well I suppose Nash’ll have to dust. Hopefully without the French maid costume this time. Is that all you interrupted me for?”

 

“That’s not all,” Ariadne said, shaking her head. She felt nauseous again and wondered if she shouldn’t try the breathing techniques her old track coach had taught her.

 

“Brandy?” Ariadne offered suddenly. Having a European parent had done wonders for the household drinking age.

 

“No,” Arthur’s watched her as she somewhat shakily poured a tumbler for herself, but his expression and body language had shifted from fatherly concern and settled into suspicion.

 

“Araidne, what’s this about? I can’t be gone for too long; I have to get back down to rehearsal.”

 

“I love you,” she blurted.

 

“Well it’s good to know that the teenage ‘I hate you’ has faded but was that what you dragged me up here for?”

 

Araidne visibly braced herself. “Dad,” she said weakly, “Robert’s father is a senator, a conservative senator. A very conservative, coalition for moral order senator who is running for re-election.”

 

Arthur nodded at the information, taking it in and listening with quiet attention.

 

“We told them,” Araidne paused to drink a finger of her brandy, “Well, he told them that you were the cultural attaché to France and that Eames was a housewife.”

 

Arthur turned incredulous, “What?”

 

Ariadne motioned wide with her arms. She pushed down the nervous chuckle and tried to look as serious as she could. She needed to keep hoping that her father would understand. That Eames would understand.

 

“He had to,” Ariadne defended, “His father’s the favorite for majority leader come election time.”

 

“I don’t care who he is,” Arthur returned. The President or even Lady GaGa could be in his house and he still wouldn’t care, especially if they were the ones that were causing his flesh and blood to lie about her life.

 

Arthur began to parse what wasn’t being said, “I don’t want to be someone else,” he said, and it was the quietest thundering of words Ariadne had ever heard. “Do you want me to be someone else?”

 

At the last question Arthur’s voice broke more than he would have preferred it too.  Not in twenty years of living had his daughter ever shoved his lifestyle back at him, never once when a school trip had needed chaperones or when her club events had needed volunteers at school had she ever told him he needed to be someone else to be around her.

 

“No,” Araidne said quickly. She set the glass tumbler back on the bar before she sloshed its contents everywhere. “Of course not, and neither does Robert! But his dad, he’s, well he’s Maurice Fischer, dad.”

 

Arthur raised his arms in a ‘so what?’ motion, his face showed he was still trying to figure out what the situation was, and figure out the details.

 

“You don’t read the papers,” Ariadne allowed herself the nervous chuckle she’d been keeping down. “Of course you don’t.”

 

“I keep up with the BBC news feeds all the times, not to mention the arts and leisure section of the New York Times…Variety.”

 

“Dad,” Ariadne groaned. She turned back for her brandy, “Reading world news and the theatre section isn’t going to keep you current on men like Maurice Fischer.”

 

“What don’t I know?” Arthur demanded, “You’re not marrying some Nazi are you?”

 

“No, no, no,” Ariadne said tiredly. If her father had been able to guess what she needed this would have been easier, she had planned for this to be easier, ever since Robert had nervously squawked what he had lied about into the phone to her. “He’s just conservative, like half of America is conservative.”

 

“Not with what’s on cable these days they’re not,” Arthur said dryly. He crossed the gap between them in three quick steps. He took the tumbler from her hand and placed it one shelf too far out of her reach, as if he were hiding candy from her and she were a child.

 

“I really want to marry Robert,” she said seriously “I need your help.”

 

“Not with this you don’t,” Arthur replied, turning to pace his way towards the couch.

 

“You’ve done it before,” Ariadne protested crossly.

 

“What? Lied about who I am? Not once have I ever sugar coated my life to _anyone_.”

 

“My first day at Proclus Academy, do you remember what you told me?” the slow burning but long lived temper she’d inherited from Arthur was being lit.

 

“No,” Arthur grit out when it became apparent that she was waiting for an answer.

 

“When Mrs. Martin asked me what my father did for a living you told me to tell her that my father was a businessman.”

 

All of Arthur’s heated fight seemed to vanish from him then. His shoulders slouched backward in surprise and the look of painful memories ran from one side of his face to the other. It wasn’t something Arthur had been particularly proud of.

 

“You were a baby,” Arthur protested, much more softly this time “And Mrs. Martin was a small minded idiot. I didn’t want you to get hurt, it’s different now, you’re a woman.”

 

Ariadne knew that her father’s biggest vulnerability would always be the lengths he would go to for his daughter, she hated to use that against him. “I can still get hurt.”

 

Ariadne’s simple statement had Arthur’s eyes knitting together in what would most easily be described as pain, and Ariadne knew that if she really wanted her father to help her convince Robert’s family they could get married then she couldn’t stop right then. “Dad, it would mean the world to me if you just help me and Robert.”

 

Arthur’s arm swung behind him a moment as if he were groping for a chair but he settled it on his hip. “This is crazy,” he said hoarsely “I mean what am I supposed to do? Close the club so I can pretend to be some cultural attaché? Whatever the hell that means?”

 

Ariadne shrugged when Arthur’s temper began to return to its former bite and bark.

 

“What am I supposed to do with Eames?” he demanded of her loudly, “How do you make Eames into a housewife?”

 

Ariadne knew the appropriate response wasn’t ‘Add a feather duster’ so she took a deep breath before telling him the conclusion she’d come to earlier. “You’d have to send Eames away for a few days.  To that place he likes in the Hamptons maybe…”

 

“Are you insane? You try sending Eames away!”

 

“We’ll never get him past the Fischers,” Ariadne argued back, smacking one hand against the other as if her father just wasn’t grasping the concept. “We’ve got to get rid of a few things around here.”

 

“What things?” Arthur gestured wildly to the apartment. It’d been collecting new décor ever since they moved in.

 

“Like that,” Ariadne was gesturing across the large room to the seven foot statue of pure Grecian marble.

 

“Neptune?” Arthur’s tone was disbelieving. Ariadne could name quite a few of the outlandish things and ideas she’d brought into this house but she couldn’t remember a single one that made her father react like he was now. “It’s a classic.”

 

“And this?” Ariadne raised a brow and jerked a thumb to the painting just over her right shoulder. A mahogany wooded frame had housed the painting in the very same spot since she was ten.

 

“The Bacon?” and Ariadne thought that maybe her father seemed the most distressed at that. She knew it was a fake, not one of the ones that got sold for eighty some million to prestigious museums, but her father had always had a special adoration for it. “That’s _art_.”

 

“Yeah, well what about that?” Araidne jerked her hand towards a foot tall statue sitting on the end table. Its phallus was longer than it was tall.

 

Arthur reached out a hand to turn that statue around, so that it faced the wall. The move did nothing to improve the statue’s sexual display. Instead it put a particularly pert pair of stone buttocks on display.

 

Arthur didn’t bother to ask if that was better. His fingers were beating a nervous pattern against his hip quicker and quicker every second. His face had taken on a forced, stoic expression.

 

When Arthur made a move to tuck in the Star of David that was hanging on a slim gold chain around his neck Ariadne tried to proceed as gently as she could. “It’s not just one or two things, okay? I mean it’s everything,” she gestured broadly to the apartment. “We’re going to have to tone this down below extreme; we need to make this a little bit like…other people’s homes.”

 

“I see,” Arthur said slowly, the hand at his hip snapping to a jerky stop. “So we need a total redecoration so that we can look like ‘other people’.”

 

In for a penny in for a pound “And, Dad,” Ariadne turned so that they were facing one another, carefully avoiding her father’s usually welcome gaze. “You’re going to have to try to, you know, switch—ah, change your mannerisms a little.”

 

“What exactly are you saying?” Arthur straightened his back.

 

“I’m saying you need to be a little less obvious.”

 

Arthur’s chin jutted out in defense and Araidne hastened to continue “I’m not saying you’re all sashaying hips like Bette Midler (that was far more an Eamesian type mannerism Araidne thought) I’m just saying you’re a bit, stereotypical, obvious.”

 

“I’m obvious?” Arthur didn’t look convinced. He gave into temptation and allowed himself to run an anxious hand through his hair.

 

“Dad,” Ariadne sighed. She lifted a finger to her father’s cheek and pressed down and towards his chin. When she lifted the same finger to the white walls an ivory-cream trail was left on the wall.

 

Arthur braced himself and even though “We just had the walls sponge painted, Ari,” wasn’t what was on his mind to say it was the first thing that slipped out. That and an errant thought that Eames was not going to like concealer stains on their walls.

 

A knock on the door from the club entrance announced a presence just before Yusuf strolled in through the door, clipboard in hand.

 

“I think you should come downstairs,” Yusuf said to Arthur. The man seemed to be towards his wit’s end, though he did tend to be like that most of the time. “Eames is trying to take the prat’s chewing gum away.”

 

What his partner and their hired dancer was doing downstairs wasn’t registering on his radar just yet so the quick, snappish “I’ll be right down,” that he tossed at Yusuf was purely reflexive.

 

As soon as the door closed Arthur turned to look at Ariadne, wearing probably the hardest look he’d ever worn when dealing with her.  His hands were pressed firmly against his side and his back was straight.

 

“Yes I where foundation,” he began, “Yes, I live with a man, and yes, I’m a middle aged _fag_ , but I know who I am, Ari. I’ve lived twenty years knowing exactly what and who I’ve wanted in my life. It’s been a long time since I’ve given half a fuck what anyone’s thought of me. I’m not going to let some moron of a senator ruin that.”

 

Arthur shook his head slowly, his eyes filling with resolve like steel “Fuck the senator,” he muttered viciously, “I don’t give a damn what he thinks.”

 

Arthur opened the door, and closed it behind him without another word. It was louder, oddly, than it would have been if he’d stormed from the room.

 

Ariadne pressed back tears and tore her eyes away from the door with synapses firing cross ways. She wasn’t quite sure what to do. She had a catastrophe of a wedding impending, in-laws that she wasn’t sure she’d ever like, rent and a job to earn, and schooling to tie up, but the thing that was rocking her the most was for the first time in her life she knew she’d disappointed her father, one of the only two people to ever love her unconditionally.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

“Still outside the home of Senator Maurice Fischer, the Co-Founder of the Coalition for Moral Order, and as you can see…”

 

“Awaiting word on Senator Fischer, we’re still not sure at this time on whether he is actually home or not—,”

 

“Senator Fischer! Many wonder if he too has a secret sex life, hiding away from Americans behind a façade of conservative fraud!”

 

At the side of the gathered media mass a different man stood out from the group. He was portly and ill dressed and his growing stubble and rumpled appearance gave signs of an inattention to personal care. He lounged in his own small area, watching but not reporting like the others. He looked to be waiting for his own special clue.

 

Later, a casual look around the property told him he may have found it.

 

Drawn by the sounds of heavy lifting and careless handling the rumpled reporter managed to find himself at the gate entrance to the Fischer’s garage. A hired driver, or maybe a beleaguered assistant, was loading suitcases into the trunk. He was doing a thoroughly poor job of it.

 

The man looked miserable. The reporter grinned and whistled.

 

“Hey,” the reporter called, jerking his head towards the edge of the gate. After a moment of checking the windows in view the driver made his way to the gate, his hands in his pockets.

 

The reporter couldn’t help but be smug when he pulled a fifty out of his wallet and waved it inside the gate bars asking “Where’re you driving ‘em?” to the other man.

 

After just one more cautious glance at the house the man pulled a hand out of his pocket and grabbed the money. He grunted: “Greenwich Village, in New York.”

 

The reporter recoiled back on his heels, “Greenwich Village, in _New York City_?” he questioned incredulously.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“The conservative co-founder of the Coalition for Moral Order is going to _Greenwich Village_ in New York goddamn City?”

 

The driver shrugged, scowled, and hurried off before a member of the household could spot him.

 

The reporter turned back away from the gate, his eyes wide. He wasn’t sure whether he had just been hustled fifty dollars or handed the biggest story of his career.

 

Senator Maurice Fischer, heading to the birthplace of the American gay rights movement; it was unbelievable.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

The small TV that Maurice had insisted they install in their bedroom (so that he could watch CSPAN into the early morning hours) was on but Margot had been paying only half a mind to it as she packed their luggage. It wasn’t until Jay Leno raised his voice louder to address the audience that she paid it any real attention.

 

“Now folks,” the comedian began somberly “I know there’ve been a lot of tasteless jokes going around this week about Senator Peter Browning…and here’s one more!”

 

Margot shook her head as she wrestled another pack of undershirts into their suitcase. She didn’t want Maurice to look paunchy under any of his dress shirts. Maurice was more vocal with his disgust though and made a throaty noise before violently clicking the television off.

 

“This is unbearable!”

 

He stood and put his long coat on and Margot turned back to packing the suitcase, composing a rude enough letter to Jay Leno in her head. When she turned back to the dresser, though, it was in time to catch sight of Maurice carelessly wrenching the bedroom window open.

 

She gasped. “No! Maurice!” She grabbed his coattails and tried to pull him back in the room as he swung a leg over the sill.

 

“Shush,” he waved a hand at her rudely, “Would you just calm yourself? I’m going down the ladder. I’m not facing the bloodsucking press tonight. Tell the chauffeur to come around the back.”

 

“I don’t want to go out there alone!” Margot protested hotly.

 

“You won’t be alone, Robert will be with you.” Then more vehemently he added “It’s not _you_ they’re after Margot!”

 

Robert walked in the room just a moment after. He was still trying to figure out how bad his karma must be that a Senator’s sexy death scandal ended up coinciding with his engagement announcement. He spotted his father on the window sill and his eyebrows jumped to his hairline.

 

“Father!”

 

“For the love of…shush!” Maurice waved aside the curtains, “I’m just going down the back way. Robert, have some nerve for once.”

 

“Hey!” Margot protested again, holding firmly to his elbow. “I thought you were going to announce Robert’s engagement to the Harper girl?”

 

“Well not before we meet them,” Maurice responded tiredly, “What if they change their mind?”

 

Robert tried not to wince. His guilt was going to form ulcers by the time his and Ariadne’s parents finally met. His father disappeared from the window with a halfhearted “I’ll meet you in the car.”

 

Robert studiously avoided any direct eye contact with his mother.

 

Outside, just as Maurice reached the halfway point down the ladder, lighting implements sprang to life and his footing slipped, causing him to yelp and grab the ladder to steady himself. Cameras were already snapping and flashing behind him. Maurice sighed.

 

“Senator!” one ambitious reporter shouted, “Do you think Senator Browning’s death will cost you votes?”

 

The questions had grown more ludicrous each day since Senator Browning’s death and Maurice found himself at a somewhat loss for words as he tried to turn on the ladder and straighten with dignity.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began, trying to find a position that could look regal mid-ladder “I am, as are all my colleagues, Republic and Democrat; Liberal and Conservative alike, deeply stunned and saddened at the circumstances surrounding the death of Senator Peter Browning.”

 

Maurice pointedly ignored using Senator Browning’s first name alone as he had in the past. It wouldn’t do to continue tying himself to the man’s name. “My family and I are leaving town for a few days,” he continued “For reasons I cannot at this….”

 

When he trailed off he realized that just ducking the question wouldn’t have a desired enough effect and he realized at once where Margot’s planning came in. He cleared his through and thanked God that the woman had learned from his long political career “To plan a happy event!” he declared to the news corps below him, “Which may perhaps heal some of the, er, negative, that is to say, bad things that Senator Browning’s death has made us all…well, feel.”

 

“Where are you going, Senator Fischer?” this new voice wasn’t mixed in with the rest of the crowd and Maurice strained his eyes to see the image of a stodge reporter tucked in the back by the tree line.

 

“Where?” Maurice stalled for a moment, “To our country home, out to the west. Yes, some quiet introspection.”

 

Cries of “Senator Fischer!” followed him as he jerkily made his way back up the ladder. However he couldn’t descend amongst the pack of wolves that had gathered. It wouldn’t be good to be described in the news as having had had to sneak out of his own home. It wouldn’t look right.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Arthur hadn’t had a cigarette since the nineties, but he was seriously considering saying to hell with it and bumming one from one of the workers. Whiskey wasn’t cutting it.

 

He was in the club, tucked away at the end of the bar, and was, for the most part, away from the prying eyes of his employees as they hurried around preparing to open for the night. Arthur had been looking at the bar’s shiny wood finish for over an hour and still he hadn’t been able to process everything that had happened that afternoon.

 

Every time he’d tell himself to shake it off and think of a solution he’d get sidetracked. One thought would lead to another, and then another, and soon enough he was back to one alarming realization: His daughter was _ashamed_ of him.

 

It was a foreign concept to him. One of the very first lessons that he and Eames had ever taught to Ariadne was that she should always accept herself, and others, for whom and what they were. No questions asked.

 

He could still remember the night of her graduation party. They’d closed the club to the public, even though it was a busy summer Saturday, and had allowed Ariadne to invite anyone she wanted. It had seemed like half the school had turned out.

 

Eames had gone out and bought twenty of what had to be the largest banners Arthur had ever seen. The man had then gone on to hang them all over the club, throwing decoration after decoration up on the walls simply because he thought Ariadne would like them.

 

There was no way that anyone could have doubted that Ariadne had proud parents that night.

 

Arthur just hadn’t realized that he had to worry about Ariadne not being proud of her parents.

 

At any rate, the worry was moot at this point. Arthur stood and shoved himself away from the bar. Someone was rehearsing with the Piano in the background, but Arthur couldn’t focus on that. His daughter’s fiancé and his parents were coming in a day and Arthur had no way to stop it from happening.

 

Arthur sighed, rubbed at his wrists in frustration, and turned a hard stare on his club. This was the paradise he’d built for himself. Everything from the God-awful patterned walls to the beat up stage floor was his and he’d guarded and protected it since the first day the keys to the doors had been sat in his hands.

 

And now he was letting his daughter down.

 

The two things were synonymous in his mind. All his successes, all his accomplishments, they’d all hinged on one main standard: He’d opened a successful business and formed a happy family. Now, Arthur could only wonder if his family had really been a happy family after all.

 

Unbidden, Arthur’s mind wandered down the road of memories until he was sitting in a hospital room with a dark haired infant tucked into him arms.

 

“I don’t want her,” the normally vibrant woman who was Ariadne’s biological mother had said “I can’t have a child right now Arthur, _merde,_ but I can barely take care of myself.”

 

“Ok,” Arthur had whispered back. His eyes had never left the newborn’s. He had wondered if this little bundled up girl would grow up and look like him. He had wondered if she would like sports, or theater, or maybe she’d be something completely unexpected…

 

“Arthur,” the woman had sobbed, a nurse was loitering at the door “Please, you have to take her. I don’t want her, I don’t want her…my business, all my dreams, _non_ …”

 

It had taken Arthur a moment raise his head but when he did he had looked at his one-time lover and leveled a non-negotiable look at her. “If you give her up now you can’t ever take her back.”

 

The woman had twisted her body into the sheets, wrapping them around herself. She had nodded, once. “I don’t want to be a mother. It’s a curse.”

 

Arthur had stood, his eyes had wearily sought out the nurse, but the nurse had only turned her gaze in the opposite direction, acting as if she couldn’t hear them.

 

“Thirty thousand,” Arthur had said finally, hugging his two day old child to his chest, “The Company is paying me in advance for a one-year contract, I’ll give you thirty thousand of it and then I don’t ever want to hear from you again.”

 

When Arthur had stood in that hospital room and told Ariadne’s mother his stipulation he hadn’t thought that he’d be able to retire from a short but luminescent career on stage and open a popular nightclub. He hadn’t expected that when he finally brought Ariadne home a couple days later that Eames would be standing in his new apartment’s kitchen, ready to make a commitment larger than the two of them had ever imagined.

 

Arthur had only stood in that hospital room and thought that he’d give and do anything for the sleepy baby tucked in his arms.

 

Now, two decades later, he closed his eyes against a well of unwanted moisture and turned to stride towards the back of the club. As he took the stairs two at a time towards the home he had been the happiest in he finally made a decision.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Ariadne was fumbling an old model of the Eiffel Tower that she’d had since high school between her hands when she heard the apartment door open and close out in the main room. She sat up straighter on her bed when she heard her father’s tired voice call out “Nash?”

 

She heard some indistinguishable mutterings before her father said “Damn it,” and Nash replied with “What? What did I do?”

 

The model stilled between her hands.

 

“Nothing. We’re re-doing the apartment.”

 

Ariadne sat up in her bed. Had her father really told Nash what she thought he had? This was terrific, to Ariadne at least. Maybe her father really understood what she’d been trying to tell him earlier? She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, slipping her feet into fuzzy purple slippers, courtesy of Eames.

 

“Oh, this is for the in-laws right?” Nash was saying out in the main room.

 

“Right,” Arthur confirmed, resigned. “We’ve got to get rid of anything that’s over the top. This is priority now.”

 

“Damn, boss, that’s a lot.”

 

When Ariadne poked her head out of her doorway her father was pacing Nash like a commander readying troops for battle

 

“You’re going to have to get yourself a proper uniform,” he was saying, “I can’t afford for everything to go smooth and then have you ruin it over some idiotic detail.”

 

“Like a butler?” Nash’s face screwed up and he waved his can of Pine-Sol in the air at Arthur “I’m going to look like a tool.”

 

“Maybe,” Arthur acquiesced dismissively, “But you’ll look like a tool in a proper uniform.”

 

“Whatever, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell I suppose.”

 

“We’ll start first thing in the morning,” Arthur was circling to stand in front of the large, stone Poseidon. Nash was looking down at his own cut off jean shorts in despair.

 

“I’ll get Eames out of the house first thing in the morning…”

 

“Where’m I supposed to get a uniform?”

 

“…I’ll just tell him that he has to go away for a while.”

 

Neither of the men were listening to one another, and when Nash walked from the main room sighing and saying, “I have _so_ much to do now,” Ariadne leaned against the door casing and said, “Dad?”

 

When Arthur turned to look at her she couldn’t help smiling, “Thank you,” she said, resting a hand at her heart in an imitation of Eames. Her father’s eyes were grim though, and they pressed against her like an accusation.

 

“Do me a favor, Ari,” Arthur said hoarse, “don’t talk to me for a while.”

 

Ariadne stepped backwards and closed her door.

 

**X-_X-_X**


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the feedback so far. I'm glad there are other people who share my crazy enjoyment of this idea!

**X-_X-_X**

 

Robert could count all the times in his life where he’d felt this uncomfortable. There were few. In truth, there were really only one or two moments that compared with currently being in the car, seated between his parents and their version of the Cold War.

 

Robert didn’t even think that the time he had cried in class after being written up by Mrs. Stevenson was as uncomfortable as this. To make matters worse, his father had shoved a chocolate bar at him like Robert was still five years old and could be appeased by sweets. Robert didn’t remind his father that he hadn’t liked or eaten chocolate in almost a decade.

 

Under Maurice’s watchful eye Robert had unwrapped the chocolate bar and taken mouse sized bites while trying not to let on his disgust. He felt as though he were in primary school again. Over Robert’s lap, both his parents were leaned forward and having a heated argument.

 

“Why don’t we just charter a plane?” Margot was saying.

 

“No,” Maurice said, “We can’t get out of the car! The second we get out of the car we’ll be spotted.”

 

Yes, Robert mused, they can’t get out of the car because Armageddon, aliens, or cheap tabloid paparazzi might be waiting. Lions, and tigers, and bears oh my!

 

Robert watched his mother’s lips thin until they were barely present any longer, and when she took an exaggerated gulp of her coffee he figured it was to distract herself from cussing his father out. His mother’s greatest battle was between her true nature and the image of a perfect politician’s wife.

 

In the front seat the Fischer’s driver had let his attention wander to the light grey sedan that had been following them since they began. The waded up bills in his pocket felt heavy.

 

In the grey sedan Tadashi, long time cameraman for the tabloid journalist Mort Miller, grimaced down at his gas station coffee. Mort, sitting beside him, grunted out “Tastes like piss,” as if he could read Tadashi’s mind.

 

“I’m glad you have experience knowing what piss tastes like, Mort,” Tadashi retorted dryly.

 

Back in the black town car Robert looked first at his mother, then over to his father and resolutely looked down at his hands. Sometimes it was hard to believe life was real. He sighed.

 

X-_X-_X

 

It may have been a bit of a drive from the apartment, but a morning spent at Coney Island was what the doctor ordered, at least in Eames’ opinion. A few too many people maybe, but he couldn’t really complain.

 

Looking over at Arthur, sun block smeared into the man’s vampire-like skin, Eames couldn’t help a brief bubble of near hysterical pleasure. He couldn’t help it if he loved his life. He shifted and relaxed further down into his collapsible lounge chair, letting his sunglasses slip down his nose.

 

In an attempt to stave off accidentally reciting poetry aloud Eames decided to say, “Ah, how I do so love the sun.”

 

“It’s nice,” Arthur allowed.

 

Eames’ eyes shifted sideways “Don’t even try being coy, darling, you’d be sprawled out naked on this beach if there were less people and it were on the pleasant side of legal, and we both know it.”

 

Arthur’s cheeks reddened. “If you’re having exhibitionism fantasies again maybe we can work it into the show.”

 

“Darling! I believe that was innuendo. I’m so proud.”

 

“Wasn’t quite innuendo,” Arthur retorted dryly. He fanned himself a bit with a magazine. After a moment he shrugged his shoulders back and rested his head on the back of the chair. He grinned wickedly, “But can you imagine an opening night like that? The reviews the club would get…”

 

Eames laughed aloud and smiled back at his partner. He reached over to hook a hand over Arthur’s wrist, running a thumb over the man’s pulse point. “I’m afraid the resulting lawsuit and possible imprisonment wouldn’t suit you, love.”

 

“Guess we’ll have to dash it then,” Arthur sighed regretfully. He tossed a bright smile at Eames, eyes lit up by more than sunlight.

 

Eames leaned over and stole a kiss, and then another.  “I do love it when you get lewd.”

 

They continued to tease and joke for another couple minutes, Arthur nearly forgetting what that day’s outing was all about. For a few minutes it had really just been about him and his partner enjoying one another’s company. Now Arthur realized he had to get working on the day’s plan.

 

“You know,” Arthur began, keeping his voice level and placating “You could use some more sun. Maybe take a quick vacation; you look tired.”

 

Eames had stopped smiling half way through the sentence. By the end of Arthur’s statement he had taken his aviators off.

 

“What the bloody hell does that mean?”

 

“Nothing,” Arthur assured him, steadfastly not flinching. Arthur could tell this wasn’t going to end the way he had planned.

 

When Eames opened his mouth again, his brows furrowing while he tried to parse the meaning behind Arthur’s statement, Arthur rocketed up and out of his rented beach chair, reaching down to dig into their tote bag for his wallet. “Mango smoothie?” He suggested.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Back at the apartment the club’s day crew was involved in a working frenzy worse than holiday dress rehearsals. Ladjuana and Diana had managed to entangle themselves in wall hangings and Sasha and Sabrina Star were trying to figure out the logistics of getting the Poseidon statue onto a dolly and out onto the lanai’i.

 

“Careful,” Nash called out half-heartedly. Who put him in charge of these types of things anyway? He shrugged when the Francis Bacon prints came off the walls with less than careful handling. He was more concerned with what was going on in the region of his pant leg.

 

Ariadne came in from the kitchen just in time to get distracted by her parents’ collection of signed show bills being tossed into a box. She remembered her reason for coming into the room and held up the magazines she had brought with her. “Alright, who put the playboys in the bathroom?”

 

“What?” Sabrina Star said from where she was hanging fabric on the wall, “It’s what _they_ read.”

 

“Look,” Ariadne said, shaking her head. She wanted to point out that it’s not like her parents had play _girl_ in the bathroom beforehand, so what was the point of the playboy? “Don’t add. Just subtract. This place has to be perfect and we don’t have that much time.”

 

Nash hadn’t even paid attention to the exchange. “Yo, Yusuf, careful. I want that nice Armani break in the front, none of that off the rack type look, alright?”

 

Yusuf had hemming needles in his lips so he couldn’t respond but he glared upwards and gave a sharp pull to the cuff of Nash’s pant legs.

 

Nash’s response was to whine back with: “Yeah but don’t just do it down there, I have high waters up here, man.”

 

Yusuf wondered why he volunteered at all. He’d gone to school for Biochemistry and graduated _suma cume laude_. This would not be in his advisor’s ten year plan. This is what happens when you meet Eames, Yusuf concluded.

 

“What about the suspenders?” Nash asked the next minute, “Do you think they’re supposed to line up with the nipples or what?”

 

Yusuf sighed, dumping the hemming needles on the floor, and walked away to see if Sabrina needed help. “Go back to Queens—excuse me, I mean _Guatemala_.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

“But you must have meant something,” Eames insisted, not necessarily calm.

 

“You know I didn’t,” Arthur pressed back, striding a little quicker to keep up with Eames. Their time out ended and when the subject had been brought up again as they were getting out of their taxi at a cross street Eames’ response had been terse. Arthur figured that, in retrospect, he hadn’t gone about the conversation in the best possible way.

 

“You said I looked tired,” Eames said flatly. He waved his hand at Arthur “Tired means old; you mean I look _old_. You looked rested means you’ve had too much sodding collagen.”

 

“You don’t look old,” Arthur said quickly, “In fact you look wonderful, too wonderful to be wasted indoors. Let’s go window shopping, or for a walk.”

 

Arthur wasn’t sure he was expanding the best of his intellect to their thread of conversation. But they were too close to the apartment and Arthur was beginning to panic. They couldn’t go in and find the club staff stripping the place. Arthur didn’t know how to make Eames and the impending disaster avoid one another.

 

“I’d rather go home, love,” Eames said shortly, running a hand across his forehead.

 

“Don’t you always say that I have a vendetta against Vitamin D?” Arthur raised an eyebrow and tugged on Eames’ elbow, “Come on, we can go wherever you want to go.”

 

“Wherever I want?” Eames asked, slowing. Arthur’s apparently genuine facial expression seemed to win Eames over a bit. And Eames really did enjoy a day out. “Well…I’ll have to grab a jacket.”

 

“We’ll buy you one,” Arthur blurted.

 

“I’ll just grab my windbreaker from upstairs.”

 

“It’s two years old. We’ll get a new one.”

 

“We’re fifty feet from the club.”

 

“But--!”

 

“Arthur! For Christ’s sake!” Eames was looking at Arthur like the other man had tumbled off his rocker. “Why can’t we go home?”

 

Arthur’s mouth worked furiously but nothing came out. It used to be a good thing that Arthur normally had to try so hard to lie to Eames, now having the talent would have come in handy. Eames watched Arthur for a moment, trying to read him, before yanking the silk scarf at his neck off and walking across the street.

 

“Eames!” Arthur shouted. Arthur had absolutely nothing to back himself up. No plan.

 

“What?” Eames demanded, doubling back “What is the bloody problem, Arthur?”

 

Arthur hummed but didn’t say anything. When Eames was close enough Arthur reached out and tugged the other man to him with only half a scattered thought. The kiss that Arthur forced Eames into was a good deal filthier than was normally permissible in public.

 

“Darling,” the rest of Eames’ protest was lost in the insistent press of Arthur’s mouth and something _very_ creative that Arthur was doing underneath Eames’ linen shirt.

 

“I want you, I mean, that, uh, like I need you. Now.” In for a penny, in for a pound. Arthur didn’t have any other plan, so he might as well go with it. Though if Arthur got arrested he was making sure that Ariadne bailed him out with whatever money she might have set aside for this damn wedding.

 

“Hm, lucky for us we have a rather cozy flat just ‘round the corner,” Eames nuzzled along Arthur’s jaw, taking half a step back so that they weren’t quite as indecent a public sight as they had been a moment though. Arthur was glad that Eames hadn’t questioned his abrupt change of attitude. If Arthur could he’d be teasing Eames about thinking with his prick and not his head.

 

“So far away,” Arthur hummed back in response, leaning forward and trying to be as appealing as possible, “What about that service alley behind the Pewterschmidt’s?”

 

Eames’ eyebrows went into his hairline and he stepped back with a laugh. “Pet, we haven’t shagged in an alley since Ari was in diapers.”

 

Arthur cursed, and he couldn’t stop the blush that ran up his neck either. The role of the wanton hussy was not one he’d ever been good at playing.

 

He mustn’t have scared Eames off though because the other man had turned back towards the road and was tugging insistently at Arthur’s shirt cuff. “This is why we are cunning business owners that can afford a lovely, plush, king size bed. Good for a right proper shagging.”

 

Arthur caught Eames’ hand and still tried to pull him back in the other direction, away from the apartment.

 

“Besides,” Eames was saying, “I don’t know if your poor, middle-aged back could take the alley wall, Arthur.”

 

“Whose poor middle-aged back?” Arthur asked, momentarily derailed. When Eames dodged around a taxi to cross the street Arthur was forced to follow. “You’re _four_ years older than me.”

 

“Ah, but you’re such a slight little thing.”

 

“Slight little thing?” Arthur spluttered and glared at Eames’ back, still being dragged along the side-walk towards their apartment and club. “We’re the same height, and you’re not that much bigger than me. I think you’re delusional.”

 

Eames snorted but just grinned over his shoulder at Arthur, waggling his brows.

 

When they reached the outside stair to head up to the apartment Arthur decided to give one last attempt. He crowded Eames up against the outer gate door and planted what had to be at least their seventh or eighth best kiss ever on him. When they parted Eames cleared his throat a couple of times.

 

“Well, love, I can’t say that the sun doesn’t agree with you.”

 

Then Eames turned with a come hither look and began jogging up the stairs.

 

Arthur wanted to lean over and bash his head against the wall a couple times. Best laid plans and all that.

 

X-_X-_X

 

“What is _that_?” Ariadne demanded, incredulous.

 

Ladjuana and Seth were carrying the mounted head of a moose and trying to leverage it up the wall.

 

“I got it from the antique store across the street,” Ladjuana said, she motioned up towards the moose and added “You know, like that Sarah Palin chick.”

 

“Don’t add,” Ariadne stressed as succinctly as possible. Before she could go further into direction voices could be heard arguing loudly on the landing. Her eyes went wide with panic and Ariadne nearly dropped the box she was carrying.

 

At once all of the club workers sprang into action and began running towards the club door. When Ladjuana and Seth began to look like they were contemplating how best to get the moose out the door to the club Ariadne cut them off, “Put the moose on the lanai’i….put the moose on the lanai’i!”

 

Ariadne began moving as swiftly as she could towards the living room, just as the last of the club workers disappeared out the door.

 

Out on the landing Arthur was doing his damnedest to unhook Eames’ Gucci couture belt buckle.

 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Eames was panting in between short bursts of hysterical chuckling, “I haven’t the foggiest what’s gotten into you—!”

 

“Let’s just—wait a minute,” Arthur was arguing, but Eames’ hand was already on the door and he was tugging Arthur along behind him and into their apartment as quickly as possible. The door opened and…

 

Eames shouted bloody murder in surprise. Cursed up the proverbial storm.

 

Arthur let his shoulders slump and he swore under his breath indelicately.

 

“We’ve been robbed,” Eames was saying, a hand hovering over his mouth in shock, “They’ve nicked bloody everything!”

 

Ariadne’s ears were still ringing from Eames’ shrill stream of profanity but she walked forward and began trying to explain as soothingly as possible. “Eamsie, no, I’ve just taken a few things out. We’ll have it all back in place by the time you get back.”

 

Arthur, who had been previously alternating between blind panic and amazement at how bare their apartment was, widened his eyes and tried to communicate silently with Ariadne.

 

“Back?” Eames said slowly and then somewhat nonplussed he said, “Where’m I off to?”

 

Finally, Ariadne looked over at Arthur and said, “You didn’t tell him?”

 

Arthur crossed his arms and tried not to look as wretched as he was beginning to feel. Moment of truth, he decided.

 

“Tell me what?” Eames demanded, turning to Arthur with a brow raised and an arm on his hip.

 

“Ariadne’s fiancé is coming tonight,” Arthur began slowly, not making eye contact “With his gun-loving, free market capitalist, so called family values—,”

 

“ _Dad_.”

 

“—Parents. And we thought,” when Arthur finally made eye contact Eames’ mouth was still hanging open with shock, but the look in his eyes suggested that he was beginning to realize that they’d been trying to pull something over on him, “that it’d be better—that it would just be easier for things to go well—if you weren’t here.”

 

Eames furrowed his brows, his hands dropping to his sides, and he turned to look at Ariadne for confirmation. She tried to smile and failed. “I see,” Eames said shortly.

 

“It’s just for tonight…”

 

“I understand,” Eames pressed on flippantly, “It’s just while _people_ are here. It’s alright my darling, it’s nothing. It’s painful, but it’s not likely important, I’m leaving.”

 

Arthur’s mouth went dry and he tried to reach for Eames’ elbow to tell the man that, _no_ it wasn’t that they wanted him to leave. Arthur realized with certain clarity that he and Eames hadn’t actually been apart for more than a day or so since they’d gotten together. Decades they’d been together but now the idea of Eames leaving for the night, and Arthur sleeping alone in their bed, was absolutely crushing.

 

Eames jerked harshly away from Arthur. Arthur flinched back staying stock still. Eames was livid. Arthur could see he was trying to fit into the role of stage dramatics that he usually took to mask anger, but it wasn’t sticking.

 

“The sodding freak is leaving,” Eames said. “You’re safe.”

 

Eames turned and sauntered back out onto the landing and down the stairs. His head held as high as it could go.

 

“That went well,” Arthur said blithely. Then Arthur reached down and picked up Eames’ dropped hat and hauled ass down the stairs.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Eames honest to Christ felt like he was fifteen and had just been caught palming Harvey Wellington’s cock behind the hedges again. His father had made him feel worthless. His mother had poured herself a drink.

 

Eames hadn’t shared a word with his parents in almost twenty two years.

 

He passed tourists in daywear, students scrounging for caffeine, and locals who smiled at him, but Eames felt, for the first time ever, like running away from the place he always thought fondly of as home and never coming back.

 

Then he heard Arthur shout “Eames!” behind him. Eames let out a huff of air and felt tears well. Feeling ridiculous he blinked his eyes and thought about how his father would box his ears for crying; about how he used to.

 

“Will you listen?” Arthur demanded, catching up to him as Eames turned the corner.

 

“I don’t particularly care for you right now darling,” Eames replied tersely, “This isn’t quite like the time you dropped the kitchen china down the stairs, it’s a bit worse really.”

 

“I know,” Arthur through a hand out to grab at Eames’ arm, “I’m sorry, look, I really am, Eames. You _know_ me for fuck’s sake. You can stay.”

 

Eames shook Arthur off and ducked around a crowd of people. He could stay? Eames wanted to scoff. Was that what Arthur thought the problem was? Really?

 

“I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted,” Eames sniffed instead, his character from stage settling over him like a shield. Let Arthur think what he likes. “My heart has been run over by a lorry filled with your disrespect and condescension!”

 

Arthur really missed a step at that, and jogged a little quicker to keep up with Eames, mouthing ‘Lorry?’ behind his back.

 

“I can just be kicked out of the flat that _I_ made a home out of, especially considering you can’t tell your suede from your velvet, Arthur, at any time. I have no legal rights!”

 

“I do too know suede from velvet,” Arthur retorted before saying, “and what the hell do you mean legal rights? We put your name on the club years ago!”

 

“I used to think your dense moments were adorable,” bemoaned Eames, raising a hand to clutch at his imaginary pearls, “and now you’re nothing but a cutting, cruel, temperamental, slave-driving, unequal—,”

 

“I’m dying to hear the point of this one,” Arthur said over Eames, loudly. He glanced around them nervously, just as Eames intended him to.

 

Eames is a man of many skills, however, and he’d long proved that he could go shout for shout with Arthur. Not to mention uncouth behavior in public tended to get Arthur anxious. “I can’t take this ugliness!” Eames declared to the street at large. A dog walker jumped in surprise and tripped herself over her leashes, “Here, feel my pulse!”  
  
Arthur put his hand to Eames’ wrist accordingly. His pulse was fantastic for a middle-aged man prone to melodrama. However Arthur eyed the people eyeing _them_ and decided to play along for now.

 

“Here,” Arthur said, grabbing Eames around the waist and directing the man across the street towards a cafe they frequented, “Let’s get you some water.”

 

Eames was groaning about migraines and heart palpitations by the time they made it to the doors.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Arthur had immediately steered them towards the outdoor seating where they normally took their repas. He didn’t bother sparing the waiter or the only other customer outside a glance. He called sharply for water and forced Eames to sit in chair closest to them.

 

“It’s a horrible, despicable day,” Eames was declaring shrilly. He narrowly avoided clipping Arthur's face when he waved an arm around imperiously.

 

“No it’s not,” Arthur insisted, “Just breathe.”

 

Arthur sat quickly and when the waiter returned with ice water Arthur realized it was a waiter they’d had frequently, said waiter also tended to be fond of wearing scarlet lycra when he came to Arthur’s club. “Hello Rodrigo, the usual.”

 

Once the waiter had been dismissed Arthur immediately turned back to Eames and began to get genuinely worried. In the past, during similar moments of family tension, Eames had managed to work himself up into similar fits before. During one such alarming occasion Arthur had been forced to watch as Eames got so worked up that he crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. It had been nerve-racking say the least. So, while he was pretty sure Eames was using melodrama as his weapon of choice Arthur was going to keep an eye on him anyway.

 

Noting the sweat on Eames's brow Arthur dipped the cloth napkin lightly into the ice water and applied it to other man's forehead. For once Eames quieted, and was hunched over with his eyes downcast. Arthur was somewhat stunned to realize that this occasion may not be like other occasions, and that this time all the hysterics and histrionics might be somewhat genuine in nature.

 

"There you go," Arthur murmured. He thumbed tender circles into nape of Eames’ neck.

 

"Ah, thank you darling, that's much better," Eames adjusted a piece of the costume jewelry hanging around his neck and put a hand on Arthur's knee, smiling, genuinely if not a bit sadly, at him. He reached toward his glass of water, but besides that he seemed content to remain quiet.

 

Arthur was intensely struck with the realization that this moment was a moment of importance. This was the moment where he had to prove his worth as a partner, and it was Eames that needed him now. Arthur wouldn’t put a crack in a twenty year relationship because he was afraid to step his game up.

 

"This is not because of you," Arthur said firmly.

 

"That's a first coming out of your mouth," Eames breathed out what may have been a chuckle, his gaze remained firmly elsewhere.

 

"You don't need to joke," Arthur said; he put his own hand atop Eames' "I'm serious. Ariadne is crazy about you."

 

"Sometimes I wonder about that, if she would have been happier to be raised by someone she could call ‘mum’.”

 

"Technically she could still call you mum," Arthur grinned slightly and tipped his head towards Eames, trying to tease a smile out of him.

 

"Technically," Eames did seem to be calming, and Arthur relaxed back into his own chair, although the tension had by no means passed them by.

 

After a moment Eames said, "Perhaps it is a bit much to, er, introduce me as her mother as it were, on their first visit with us.”

 

Eames was being perfectly reasonable about their situation, it made Arthur have to fight the uncontrollable urge to begin chucking items everywhere or overturn their table.

 

In truth, Arthur found it rather heartbreaking. If there positions were reversed Arthur would be railing against anyone within earshot. He wouldn’t be able to manage Eames’ grace.

 

Eames wasn’t finished though. "You could tell them I was relative who dropped in," Eames supplied, "Ariadne's uncle? Uncle Eames."

 

Eames’ tone was hopeful but Arthur still couldn't see that being a solution. "Oh what's the use? You'd still be Ariadne's gay uncle Eames."

 

"Please. I could play it straight any day, love."

 

Arthur snorted into his water. “Unlikely,” he said through a mouth full of ice “Look at the way you’re holding your glass.”

 

Pinky up, at a right angle.

 

“Look at your posture,” Arthur went on, “Not to mention that I’ve never seen you keep your hands to yourself ever. Not even in front of my mother at Uncle Albie’s funeral.”

 

“You looked so adorable in your kippah though. It’d be like self-harm to resist.”

 

“Still. We’re not going to be able to convince these people that you’re a straight man. Especially seeing as you’ve apparently gone heavy on the kohl today.”

 

“Well what about you then?” Eames sniffed and slumped to the side, “You’re obviously not a bloody cultural attaché or whatever blasted thing they have you parading as. You own show tune trivia and participate in drag show _national conferences_.”

 

“These people don’t care if you know show tunes trivia, Eames. They’re ulta-conservative right wing idiots. They just care if you’re queer.”

 

There was a pause in debate when Rodrigo returned and placed their sandwiches in front of them. Eames smiled his thanks at Rodrigo and Arthur took a moment to peer sideways at Eames and study the other man. He looked rather defeated. Eames wasn’t bothering to keep the slouch out of his shoulders and was fidgeting with his rings anxiously.

 

Arthur opened his mouth to make the suggestion that Eames could just stay downstairs and close the club that night, that way he’d avoid the dinner and not have to be sent away either, when the words unexpectedly caught in his throat. He literally chocked and ended up reaching for his water.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” Arthur responded, tears in his eyes. “But, listen, fuck these wankers, alright?”

 

Eames grinned and Arthur couldn’t help but give into the urge to smirk back. Eames’ pleasure at Arthur adopting British-isms was something that Arthur didn’t mind exploiting. If Arthur needed the big guns he would pull out the accent to go with it.

 

“I’m serious,” Arthur lay his hand on Eames’ arm “Of course you can be ‘Uncle Eames’. You’re a wonderful actor, and I’m a great director. Together we can do almost anything. We’ve done the goddamn _HMS Pinafore_ , and you remember what a nightmare that was.”

 

“Do you mean that?” Eames questioned, playing with the prongs of his fork and sounding alarmingly unsure.

 

“Obviously. Out of the pair of us who’s the one prone to exaggeration?”

 

“Brilliant,” Eames said, he leaned back in his chair and smiled genuinely, “You and me against the world, eh? Still think we can pull something off like this in our old age now?”

 

“Prime age,” Arthur corrected, “We still have five hours. That’s more than enough time.”

 

Eames leaned forward and picked up his sandwich. Underneath the table he knocked a foot against Arthur’s chair leg and then wrapped his ankle around the other man’s.

 

“You’ll have to pretend to be Ariadne’s mother’s brother,” Arthur said, “We don’t look anything alike and that way you won’t have to do the American thing on top of the straight thing.”

 

“Ta, for the idea, Arthur,” Eames replied dryly, “But that was a bit obvious. I don’t fancy adding incestuous overtones to this night if we don’t have to. Would complicate things a bit I’d imagine.”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. He reached over and swatted at Eames’ hand, making the other man exclaim and drop his sandwich. “First things first: keep that damn pinky down.”

 

Arthur fiddled with his watch as he looked Eames over. “And your posture,” Arthur reached for Eames’ waist and jerked his hips sideways, so that the man was seated with his feet flat beside one another “Try not to appear as though you have weapons below your belt. Flat footed and unremarkable, please, if there isn’t anything for them to notice then there isn’t anything for them to remember.”

 

Eames batted Arthur’s hands away from him, “No need for the advice or the hip re-alignment, cheers.”

 

Two tables ahead of them an elderly woman turned in her seat and peered over at them. Her thick glasses managed to make her look bug-like. She sniffed and turned back around in her seat, thoroughly disapproving of the ruckus they were making.

 

Arthur ignored her and tried to picture what the night was going to be like “Okay,” he said slowly, “This is a dinner party so let’s think food.”

 

Eames picked up the small jar of mustard and wiggled it to get Arthur’s attention. Arthur nodded and motioned for Eames to spread it on his sandwich bread.

 

Eames picked up a teaspoon. Arthur glared and Eames pointedly re-laid the spoon and picked up the butter knife.

 

“Smear it,” Arthur said heavily. “Men _smear_.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eames managed to lean forward in an inelegant slouch and spread the mustard correctly but Arthur’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to swat at Eames’ hand again.

 

“Keep the goddamn pinky down!”

Eames responded by spearing his bread and sending his knife clattering noisily to the ground.

 

“You can’t be so jumpy,” Arthur complained, “You have to be as confident as you normally are. If you can manage confidence while in full make up and costume during a rendition of ‘Teenie Weenie Bikini’ on stage then you can do it when talking about free-trade to a capitalist.”

 

“I shall think of this simply as a part then. An act.”

 

“Exactly,” Arthur agreed. Rodrigo came back over to fill their water and Arthur managed a couple careful bites before he opened his mouth thoughtfully. “Let’s try walking.”

 

Eames’ eyebrows made a quick jaunt upwards to meet his hairline “What the hell’s wrong with the way I walk?”

 

“You…glide,” Arthur replied lamely. He wiggled a hand at Eames as if trying to demonstrate.

 

“I what?” Eames asked incredulously “I’ve not been the hand to hip sort in my life. And I’ve no idea what this (he wiggled an arm back at Arthur in perfect imitation of the other man’s move) is.”

 

“You walk like you’re striding down the runway,” Arthur retorted dryly.

 

“Do I now?”

 

“You’re all hips and attitude; you swing from side to side…” Eames’ gaze became accusing and Arthur quickly backtracked “Which is attractive. But, not straight.”

 

Eames snorted. “Instruct me then, o’ wise director of mine.”

 

“Get up and walk,” Arthur ordered, waving a hand towards the aisle between tables.

 

Eames stood and resolutely walked neatly down the aisle. Arthur sighed. The other man’s hips were wiggling with every step he took. While Arthur could appreciate it, he believed that Senator Fischer might not.

 

The elderly woman’s attention was diverted from her lunch and she squinted as Eames turned to walk back just as he passed her table. She turned back to her newspaper crossword and looked as if she were trying very hard to appear engrossed in it.

 

When Eames made it back to their table he took one look at Arthur’s face and sighed “Too swishy then, love?”

 

“…Let me give you an image.” Arthur said finally. “It’s a cliché, I know, but it works. John Wayne.”

 

“Oh, Christ,” Eames put a hand over his lips and rolled his eyes. “Couldn’t we start with someone…easier?”

 

“You’re normally such a big fan,” Arthur replied wryly.

 

Eames shrugged, “The man wore chaps, darling. Frequently.”

 

“He has a very distinctive walk,” Arthur laid a hand flat on the table, decisive. “He’s a man’s man. Try it. Just get off your horse and mosey on into town, or whatever.”

 

Eames turned back towards the aisle, and then paused with an idea. He picked up his hat and flattened the brim so that it imitated a cowboy hat.

 

“Nice touch,” Arthur complimented. Now was not the time for him to point out the British and hats cliché.

 

This time Eames walked the few feet down with much more confidence, but that was about the only improvement. It appeared to Arthur as if the man had combined the idea of a pirate limp with a Tyrannosaurus arm movement.

 

Not a very promising outcome.

 

Eames was having too much fun with his character. When he paused to turn and come back to the table he winked at the elderly woman, tipped his hat and drawled “Howdy, ma’am.” While the accent may have been spot on the rest of the image was sorely lacking.

 

Arthur expected to be shown from the café any moment. He was forcing himself not to contemplate what the people on the other side of the café’s glass windows were no doubt thinking.

 

When Eames came back to the table he needed only to look at Arthur’s expression again to tell his thought. “No good?” he asked, practically crestfallen.

 

“Actually, it was perfect,” Arthur said lightly. “I just never realized a universe existed where John Wayne walked like that.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Robert watched his mother recap her Valium bottle with a fair bit of envy. His father was driving now that the chauffeur was napping in the passenger seat. Maurice had a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and Robert was feeling fairly trepidatious about going to sleep himself. They had a fairly shocking run in with an eighteen wheeler a few hours back.

 

As if Robert’s thoughts were foreshadowing, moments later Maurice took an abrupt right and cut across two lanes of traffic changing their destination to the Pittsburg on-ramp.

 

Several cars behind the Senator’s vehicle Mort was contemplating the scientific attributes of potholes when he noticed the Fischer family car go veering off the through way. His jaw dropped with shock, several cracker crumbs falling onto his shirt. When Mort hurried to follow the Senator Tadashi jerked awake, grabbing the safety bar and trying to make sense of the sudden traffic change.

 

"This schmuck’s a maniac,” Mort exclaimed.

 

Tadashi looked disbelievingly from the road to Mort. “You’re the schmuck. What kind of turn was that? Real smooth!”

 

“I was just following him!”

 

“You could have at least bothered with a turn signal! I’m not prepared to die for a part-time job, no offense.”

 

Mort flicked Tadashi off and glared at the bumper of the Fischer’s car. "I wonder what's in Greenwich Village anyway?"

 

"The Stonewall bar?" Tadashi ventured.

 

Mort snorted. "What conservative senator in his right mind would be headed to a gay bar?"

 

X-_X-_X

 

Eames straightened his back and stuck out his hand walking across the grass to clasp his hand with Arthur’s “Arthur you old so-and-so…How ‘bout those Giants!”

 

Obviously not the greeting Arthur had wanted. Eames watched Arthur role his eyes and put a hand to his cheek. The park had been a better choice for practice; however they weren’t getting very far.

 

“Screaming queen?” Eames ventured. He rubbed his forehead. They’d been trying to hash out the logistics of a straight male greeting for the better part of an hour. Their experience can be demonstrated by the fact that it took just under ten minutes to agree that a handshake was the proper greeting at all.

 

“Straighten your arm,” Arthur said, “and put your hand out sideways, not palm down. You’re not Elizabeth or Kate; no one’s going to kiss it.”

 

When Eames had positioned his hand the way Arthur directed Arthur reached out and grabbed it, shaking vigorously. “Eames, you old so-and-so!”

 

“I just said that,” Eames protested testily.

 

“Well now _I’m_ saying it,” Arthur said.

 

“Alright, alright,” Eames said tiredly. Arthur put a comforting hand on Eames’ hip; he knew the other man was trying hard. Eames jogged a couple feet back so that they could start again.

 

When Arthur had leaned back against the park tree and opened his newspaper, trying for the unassuming straight acquaintance look, Eames started forward again, this time extending his hand the way Arthur had said to.

 

“Eames you old son of a gun!” Arthur greeted Eames the way Arthur’s father had normally greeted his buddies. It was the only experience Arthur really had to go on. “How do you feel about that call yesterday,” Arthur began recalling the sports information he had just read in the paper “The Giant’s fourth in three plays, on their thirty yard line with only thirty four seconds to go?”

 

Eames furrowed a brow and punched at Arthur companionably. “How do you think I bloody feel?” he asked, “Betrayed? Bewildered? Wrong response?”

 

Arthur looked back at Eames blankly “You know what, I don’t even know. I haven’t had to research sports to fit in since high school, and that was lacrosse.”

 

Eames grunted, “Shall we take it from the top and hope for the best?”

 

“Yeah, we probably should.”

 

“This is sort of fun,” Eames grinned. Arthur knew exactly what he meant. They used to do the same thing in the park years ago, back when they had to get out of the studio to practice somewhere and before they had a whole nightclub at their disposal.

 

“Yeah it is, stud.” Arthur puffed his chest out and tried for a deep southern drawl.

 

Eames laughed, and replied in kind. Though, predictably his accent was far more accurate than Arthur’s. “Damn straight, amigo!”

“Damn straight!”

 

A few more moments of political incorrectness later, they pulled it back together and tried not to be so delighted with themselves. It didn’t quite work though, because around the time Eames was going to launch into an anti-communist monolog they accidentally stumbled backwards into where a man was eating his lunch.

 

Eames grunted in surprise and jumped. “Oh, I’m so sorry, mate.”

 

“Hey, take it easy,” the guy replied, pushing away a little.

 

Arthur may have been having a little bit too much fun with their role play because it was him that was stepping forward saying “How about you take it easy, alright asshole?”

 

Eames eyes went wide and his brows flew up to his hairline. There was a reason they had never enjoyed role play in the bedroom. They both had a tendency to take it too far on occasion.

 

Though, Eames had to grin. Arthur lit up in righteous anger was amusing and a fair bit arousing.

 

“He bumped in to _me_ ,” the man replied, looking unimpressed with Arthur.

 

“Tough shit.”

 

“Look buddy, why are you being such a dick?”

 

“Why are you being such a toolbag?” Arthur snapped back.

 

Eames lost all humor when the man suddenly stood and he realized that the stranger stood about a foot taller than either of them. “Oops.”

 

The sudden imminent threat to personal safety had its desired effect and Arthur snapped back to normal. His eyes went wide when he realized exactly what fight he had picked.

 

“Are you calling me a toolbag?” the guy asked calmly.

 

Arthur eyed the man’s fists, which were about the size of grapefruits. “Actually,” Arthur said, chuckling nervously “I was talking to the toolbag behind you.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Eames made a tutting noise and settled the cold compress on Arthur’s head. “You see, the swelling’s already lessening, darling.”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes up to look at where Eames was leaning against the couch above him. Arthur still looked quite dazed, really. But, they weren’t sitting in Mercy General’s trauma center so that was good news all in all.

 

“You were magnificent,” Eames winked and grinned, “Marvelous. _Very_ masculine.”

 

“I don’t know whether to call you a smartass or a jackass,” Arthur groused. He tried to glare but only succeeded in looking miserable.

 

Eames smothered a smirk and came around the couch to sit on the edge next to Arthur “At any rate that giant looked absolutely ridiculous banging your head against the tree. Looked as if he were trying to shake coconuts loose, really. He didn’t even know how to box, I mean come on now.”

 

Arthur knew when he was being made fun of. He huffed but didn’t complain when Ariadne handed Eames a washcloth full of ice and Eames settled it on his head. One did not tempt one’s nurse maid. Arthur believed that fervently.

 

Eames leaned forward and rested one of his hands on Arthur’s chest, the other man’s heartbeat a faint pattern beneath his hand. It hadn’t been a bad day, Eames figured. It actually was fairly great. They hadn’t been out and about in the city, just the two of them, in quite some time. It made Eames smile, slightly wistfully but sincerely.

 

“How about I fetch you a couple aspirin, hm?” Eames pressed a kiss to Arthur’s cheek and stood, walking around Ariadne and out of the room.

 

Ariadne wasn’t wincing in sympathy for her father. The man had taught her Taw Kwon Do as soon as she turned thirteen, so as far as she was concerned her father could have taken the guy if he’d really wanted to. She just rolled her eyes and looked away, grinning a bit. Unfortunately, though, her sight landed on the lanai.

 

“Uh, dad,” she cleared her throat, “You are aware that Nash is cleaning the pool in a g-string, aren’t you?”

 

“It’s Thursday,” Arthur shrugged as best he could in his position, “He always cleans the pool in a g-string on Thursdays. He has an entire treatise on how it improves his karmic balance or chi, or some shit.”

 

“That part of his contract?”

 

“Trust me,” Arthur dropped the washcloth bundle onto the floor. The ice was already beginning to melt into his hair, “If I could put him _not_ wearing g-strings into a contract legally then I would.”

 

“Think we could, oh I don’t know, hire a straight maid for tonight?” Ariadne slid the door to the lanai shut; Nash was beginning to sing Moulin Rouge tracks.

 

“This is the west village.” Arthur replied with emphasis, “Any person we could hire in the next couple hours would definitely be a person that the Fischers wouldn’t want to meet.”

 

Ariadne made a disappointed noise but didn’t protest further. Arthur figured that telling Ariadne the latest development was probably best done while Eames was out of the room. He took a breath and drove ahead.

 

“I have some more bad news for you,” Arthur kept his gaze toward the ceiling, “I told Eames he could stay.”

 

“You did what?” Ariadne asked, stunned. “Why?”

 

“Why?” Arthur’s attention shot to Ariadne and he began to sit up slowly, rubbing at his head, “Because the alternative would hurt him. He’s my friend, and he’s my partner; that’s why.”

 

Ariadne didn’t seem convinced at Arthur’s flat declaration, “Who are we going to say he is?”

 

“Your uncle.”

 

“My uncle?” Ariadne looked at Arthur as if he were the one bringing this craziness down upon their house “My fair haired uncle from England who happens to look nothing like my father or me?”

 

“Don’t be so cynical,” Arthur said, “It’s never flattering. We’ll tell them he’s your uncle on your mother’s side. And you know what people like Maurice Fischer think of Europeans. It’ll help explain some of Eames’ eccentricities.”

 

“Yes, his eccentricities,” Ariadne bit back sarcastically, “Because our happy homosexual home will look like an _eccentricity_ in Maurice Fischer’s eyes.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Ari,” Arthur leaned forward, “You’re only twenty, you have two decades of living under your belt, do you think you could have a little hope? And better alliteration maybe?”

 

“It’s just,” Ariadne deflated from incredulous to nervous, “When they see you and Eames together they’re going to know. It’s so obvious, it’s always been obvious. You two are the biggest romantic cliché ever. Orbiting like planets around each other, always having stars in your eyes, you name the romantic comedy and you guys are it. Sealed. Done deal.”

 

Ariadne grabbed Arthur’s discarded ice off the floor and collapsed onto the couch next to her father. She rested her head against his shoulder and put the ice against her neck. “What a mess.”

 

“What we really need is a female,” Arthur said, “In any scenario a female makes the whole thing easier. We can get away with Eames as an uncle if we had a woman here as a mother. The scheme would go off as a hitch then; every detail would fall into place. The irony of a gay man needing a woman is not lost on me, that’s for sure.”

 

Ariadne didn’t bother answering. She was imagining what she and Robert were going to end up using as an excuse to his family. Maybe an impromptu car crash?

 

“Why don’t we just see if your mother can be brought in on this?”

 

“My mother?” Ariadne was sitting rim rod straight in an instant, “My mother wouldn’t do it, would she?”

 

“We don’t have any way to know for certain,” Arthur straightened the line of his slacks and leaned back into the couch. Eames was always telling him he needed to use his imagination more. If this plan didn’t meet that quota then he didn’t know what would.

 

“Not seeing me in twenty years is probably a good indication,” Ariadne retorted pointedly. It was honestly something that had stuck with her when she was younger. The idea that the person whose body she had come out of hadn’t ever bothered to try to get in contact again. It had stopped bothering her eventually. She had a wonderful family, and she didn’t need a stranger she’d never met.

 

Until now, evidently.

 

Arthur’s mouth had opened but he was hesitant when he finally spoke “It was twenty years ago,” he said finally, simply. “She was young, scared, and broke in a country that wasn’t her own. Though, now…”

 

“You can’t be serious,” Eames’ enunciation was sharp with incredulity. Yes they had kept abreast of Ariadne’s mother’s movements over the years, but in Eames’ eyes that had never been about anything more than making sure they knew where to get a kidney for Ari if she needed it. “It’s entirely unfair of you to try and talk Ariadne into something like that, you’ll just bugger about…”

 

Ariadne, though, was leaning towards Arthur like a bloodhound that had caught a scent. “You really think she’d do it?”

 

Arthur shrugged. It wasn’t for him to say.

 

“Oh,” Eames exhaled. Shock prevented him from saying anything else. He suddenly had the urge to take a step back, through the doorway and out of the room, away from the two people on the couch. He closed his mouth and willed the feeling to pass. He’d do most anything to make sure this night went well for Ariadne.

 

X-_X-_X

 

“Ah, mon dieu! Arthur? Sweet Arthur?” tinkling laughter followed and Arthur still remembered the review where an enraptured critic had waxed poetic about Mal’s laughter. “It’s been a lifetime; I hardly believe I am really speaking to you.”

 

“I assure you I’m not a fraud impersonating a gay man that you slept with over two decades ago,” Arthur quipped, more out of nerves than the urge to be witty. Eames glanced askew at him, subtly, but Arthur still caught it over the cell phone at his periphery.

 

“Where are you?” Mal demanded, she sounded like she was being given a treat. It was far from the emotion that she’d had when they’d last parted. This time Arthur wasn’t paying her off.

 

“In the car,” Arthur said shortly, trying to shift lanes. Who thought travelling out to the Hampton’s on a weekend would be easy? “We’ll be there in fifteen.”

 

“I can hardly wait,” Mal said, laughing again, and Arthur wondered if it were required to laugh that much at the art gallery the woman owned or if she were really being genuine. Then Arthur felt horrible, once upon a time before childbirth and money they’d been friends. They’d loved one another, even if it wasn’t in the right way.

 

“Me too,” Arthur mumbled, more out of reflex. He let his mobile drop into the cup holder and sighed, running a hand through his hair. Eames was silent in the passenger seat. He was staring at the route 495 view as if it were all consuming.

 

“She’ll see me,” Arthur said, only to say something, anything.

 

Eames nodded, distractedly, but not stoically enough to hide what Arthur realized was nervousness. These were the moments that Arthur felt selfish.

 

When Arthur and Mal had been together Eames had been in the picture too. Arthur remembers easily the afternoons where the two of them, he and Eames, could flirt away hours. They performed in the same company.

 

When Mal decided that Arthur needed the experience of a woman it conveniently fell at the same time that she had signed on with a different company, although she was already tired of dance and of acting. Arthur had agreed because she had been lonely, and she had been leaving. To be truthful—Arthur had been lonely too.

 

Arthur ran another hand through his hair. He checked his mirrors, and then passed a slow truck just for something to do with his hands.

 

When Mal had left Eames and he had fallen together like puzzle pieces, eight and a half months later they were still infatuated with each other when Arthur had gotten a call from a Frenchwoman he never thought he was going to hear from again. Arthur had been signed on to a new company, with a new starlit career ahead of him.

 

But suddenly there was Ariadne.

 

Eames had been fine with the idea that he and Arthur would continue at the pace they were, that they may be performing separately but that they’d see where the relationship went. Ariadne changed things.

 

The part that Arthur remembered the most was always the part that mattered to him the most. The part where he had come back to his apartment with a baby only to find tea and an Englishman waiting. The part that Arthur liked to forget was the part before that where he and Eames had railed against each other for hours after Arthur told him about Mal, and about the baby sitting in a hospital somewhere.

 

Arthur had taken the advance money from his contract and given it to Mal. When she forced Ariadne at him and ran he’d made sure that she’d be okay, and that she’d be supported. He also had made it clear that this was it, that she couldn’t turn up in a few months and demand her baby back.

 

She never did.

 

Eames had accepted Arthur’s new life with calm deference. When Arthur had sat Ariadne down, on the couch in a group of pillows because he hadn’t even had time to buy baby supplies, Eames had come forward, mumbled something about going baby shopping, and then had swooped down and dropped a kiss on baby Ariadne’s forehead.

 

“She has your eyes,” Eames had said. And that had been that. Arthur had finished his contract, gotten a business loan, and opened a club. Eames had babysat, moved in with him, and started a new career for him.

 

This is why at times like this Arthur feels selfish. It’s because in all the turmoil of the day the thought about how Eames would feel going to see Mal hadn’t occurred to him until just then. It hadn’t occurred to him when Eames had slid into the passenger seat, or when Arthur was worrying about googling her studio and getting directions.

 

“Why don’t I drop you off at a café or something?” Arthur ventured as lightly as he could, glancing away from the road just long enough to try and glean Eames’s reaction. “It’ll take me ten minutes and then I’ll pick you up?”

 

“That’s sweet, darling,” Eames said just loud enough to be heard, and maybe Arthur had misjudged because there was an edge in Eames’s expression that wasn’t nerves. “But I’ll come up with you, I’m sure there’s a waiting room.”

 

Arthur’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Trust Eames to take the time to sound smug.

 

X-_X-_X

 

“Well, it’s certainly…” Eames trailed off, looking around the ostentatious gallery. His eyes went from the elaborate glass sculptures to the walls completely covered in painted scenes, “French.”

 

Arthur only nodded, sharing the sentiment. Even if Arthur had never met Mallorie Miles (or Mallorie Cobb now as the sign out front proclaimed) just looking around the gallery would be more than enough to know all about her. Her style hadn’t changed much over the years, Arthur could say that much.

 

He grabbed Eames under the elbow and directed him over to a reception desk where a petite, dark haired woman was looking at them expectantly. Arthur smoothed down the front of his shirt nervously, and tried to smile.

 

“The gallery is closed for today,” the receptionist greeted them, “but I’d love to help you with information about out various exhibits.”

 

“Uh,” Arthur coughed and cleared his throat, avoiding Eames’s sideways gaze, “No, my name’s Arthur Halpert? I have an appointment with Mal. Mallorie.”

 

“Oh!” The girl’s eyes went wide, and she bustled around the edge of the desk. She gripped Arthur by the forearm and turned him towards the gallery’s main floor. “Mrs. Cobb’s waiting in her office for you, sir.” To Eames she said dismissively, “You can have a seat in one of the chairs against the wall, thanks.”

 

Arthur looked, somewhat helplessly over his shoulder at Eames. Arthur shrugged uncomfortably and Eames only rolled his eyes in return. He made a shooing gesture at Arthur and sat down in one of the seats provided in the lobby area. He crossed his arms and his legs and leaned defiantly back into the chair, “The bloody French.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Mal rose when Arthur was shown through her office doors, smiling.

 

The office was light and airy, with comfortable couches and a low coffee table in one part of it, and a working mini-bar in the other. Arthur noticed these details in his periphery. His mouth was suddenly dry.

 

The mother of his child, and the only woman he’d ever slept with, was standing in front of him for the first time in twenty years.

 

“Arthur Halpert,” she said softly, over enunciating the consonants of his name. Her smile was strange, in a way, because to Arthur it looked as if she were about to console him.

 

“Mallorie Miles, or Cobb now I suppose,” Arthur smiled as widely as he could, but he was afraid that wasn’t very wide. He worried if she could see the crow’s feet at his eyes. Mal herself looked just as she always had.

 

“Yes, I am a Missus’ now, who knew that day would come?” Mal laughed her usual laugh, but her expression lightened. She gestured to the posh looking couch, “Please, take a seat, Arthur.”

 

Arthur took a seat mutely, patting his lapels flat.

 

“I’ve thought about you so many times over the years, Arthur,” Mal moved, swayed, over to the mini-bar, picking up a couple of glasses “Every time I saw an ad for _the birdcage_ , I thought of you there, running things as you do.”

 

Arthur didn’t have anything to say in return. Really, his thoughts of her had been few and far in between over the years. His darling friend at one point, but since that point passed he only ever worried about Mal in relation to Ariadne. Did he have the correct information for her medical history? That sort of thing.

 

“Are you still with…ah, Eames?” she asked brightly, only hesitating briefly on the name.

 

“Yes,” Arthur replied with genuine affection and pride, “We’ve never separated.”

 

Mal nodded absently, and instead of taking a seat next to him on the couch she sat on top of the coffee table right in front of Arthur. He noticed, briefly, that her skirt had ridden up. He accepted the glass she offered him. If anything, maybe it would help his anxiety. Liquid courage.

 

“You’re doing well for yourself?” Arthur remembered to ask after he’d taken a drink.

 

“Oh yes,” Mal reclined her head back, closing her eyes and sighing happily, briefly. “The money you gave me started this place; if it were a corporation I think I would have offered you stock Arthur. I’ve had the pleasure of being _very_ successful.”

 

Arthur could believe it. He was fairly certain that the Louis Vuitton handbag that he could see hanging on a hook in the corner would send Eames into insane fits of jealously. He took another sip of his drink. “Well, I got Ariadne for it. It was a fair trade.”

 

Arthur realized that Ariadne might take offense to being fair trade for thirty thousand dollars, but Mal only bit her lip. Arthur studied her. There were changes about her now that he cared to notice, now that he wasn’t worrying about how _he_ appeared. She seemed tense; unnaturally so. It was as if she couldn’t bring herself to relax in her own skin.

 

Arthur noticed that while she had poured herself a drink it sat, discarded, on the table beside her.

 

“How is she?” Mal asked softly, hands fidgeting in her lap, “She is happy?”

 

“She’s fine,” Arthur said automatically, a touch defensive. “She wants to get married.”

 

“Married? How old is she now?”

 

“Twenty.”

 

“Twenty? _Non_ , Arthur has it really been so long?”

 

Arthur nodded, leaning forward into her space “Today, for the first time, your daughter needs you, Mal. There is something that you can help with, and I think you have a responsibility to do it.”

 

Mal put a hand on her stomach and sucked in a breath.

 

X-_X-_X

 

In the waiting area by the receptionist’s desk, Eames rifled through the bag he had toted in with him. He was a touch angered. He finally settled on pulling out his compact, anything to distract himself.

 

He was dabbing liberally at the corners of his eyes when he noticed that the receptionist’s gaze had wandered to him. “Shiny,” he excused, waving his compact a bit, “All this blasted sun creating oils and the like.”

 

She nodded, clearly finding him odd, and returned to her book.

 

Eames closed his compact with an offended snap and eyed the book she was reading. _Nietzsche_ , as if she understood more than every fifth word _._ He’d offer her a copy of “Billy Budd” if he had one.

 

Eames had resettled his bag and crossed his legs, decidedly _not_ watching the receptionist, when the intercom on the girl’s desk buzzed, and a voice he hadn’t heard in two decades spoke.

 

_“Amara, cancel my appointments for tonight. Oh, you’ll need to let Dominic know that something has come up, yes?”_

 

“Right away Mrs. Cobb,” the way that Amara reached for her boss’s appointment book made Eames’ eyebrows rise. A little bit of hero worship right there if he did say so himself. Though, at least now that Arthur had convinced the Frenchwoman to come to dinner it meant his partner would be coming out soon and they could go home.

 

X-_X-_X

 

“Drink to this Senator Fischer, his son, and our Ariadne,” Mal was popping a bottle of champagne before Arthur could really protest. But she was smiling, and to be honest Arthur was a little slow from all the drink she’d already forced on him. He wasn’t twenty anymore, his stamina wasn’t what it used to be.

 

“I’m afraid I haven’t done much for her,” Mal said, suddenly, but in a matter of fact tone, not one of regret. “I never considered myself maternal, you see?”

 

“That’s alright,” Arthur hastened forward to reassure her, Mal’s movements were sending champagne onto the fine quality carpeting as she lackadaisically poured. “I’m maternal, and Eames is practically a breast.”

 

Mal laughed. She handed Arthur one of the flutes, and while he took a drink he noticed that once again she managed to put her own to the side, as if she’d purposefully forgotten about it.

 

A quarter of an hour passed and Eames was getting impatient in the lobby and Arthur was on his third flute full of champagne. The flow of conversation was surprisingly as quick and comfortable as it had been up until Mal had gone away.

 

“Do you remember our show, Arthur?” Mal was smiling. Arthur was woozy. He’d admit that he couldn’t handle alcohol like he was a twenty something cocksure boy still. “When we first met?”

 

Arthur smiled fondly. They were good memories. “Of course.”

 

Mal smiled and ducked her head. The perfect image of the sometimes shy but vibrant French girl he’d first met in New York just over two decades prior.

 

“Love is in the air!” Arthur sang, wanting to see her smile.

 

“Different kinds!”

 

“Quite clearly!”

 

“People out of their minds—,”

 

“—act queerly!”

 

Mal laughed. She gave Arthur the same smile that she’d flashed at him the night she’d taken him to bed. It was a smile that had gotten her many a call back audition. She was the stage lights the colorful costumes and the glittering photographs all rolled into one perfect package.

 

She began to sway and she sat down her still untouched flute. She crossed in front of Arthur and began to sing the chorus, even though Arthur had spent the majority of his time on dance he still managed to remember the old tune well enough to harmonize with her.

 

He laughed genuinely when she began to pick up their old choreography. He corrected her once and found himself beginning to feel his way through the steps as well. “Virgins are distinctly nervous!”

 

Arthur turned her, just remembering his cues in time. Mal continued to sing, and Arthur was surprised when she turned back around and laid her hand tenderly on his chest. He looked down, confused, for a moment. Alcohol was slowing his reactions.

 

Mal looked at him, sucked in a breath, and pulled away. “How handsome you were, Arthur. Everyone wanted you, _non_?”

 

Arthur dimpled. “Are you trying to embarrass me or what?”

 

Mal laughed. Mal picked her glass up, but it was only a small sip that she took, barely a touch of the lips to the glass. “You were terrified.”

 

“I thought I was going to have a heart attack.” Arthur rolled his eyes, “Only you could so innocently lure someone like that. I walk into your room and you disrobe. My first thought was honestly that somehow your robe had torn.”

 

“I spent thirty dollars convincing Bernard to lock you out of your room. Poor Arthur, you had no choice but to come to my room!” Mal threw her head back and laugh. “Thirty dollars? In those days? Ah, but I was determined to have you, _cher_.”

 

Arthur smiled and tipped his champagne back. The young French girl, terrified of a new country and terrified of having to go back home and tell everyone she’d failed—that girl was gone, but Arthur could see how she peaked through this new, grown woman.

 

 “I thought ‘What the hell, go for it.’” Arthur told her quietly. “Let’s see what straight guys are always harping about.”

 

“And it worked!”

 

Arthur grimaced, “Between two forty three and three oh-two a.m., twice.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Fifteen minutes later Eames had taken the receptionists’ book about Nietzsche, and told her in no uncertain terms that she might want to start with Freud because she was exhibiting some _tendencies_. 

 

Even Nietschze bored Eames after a while, and eventually his reading options were down to a magazine someone had left on a chair that had a front page discussing birthing techniques, or a book about French Impressionist painters that had apparently been written by Mal and was being sold by the gallery.

 

Eames snorted and crossed his arms. _As if._

 

X-_X-_X

 

Arthur could safely say that the alcohol had hit his bloodstream by this point. His limbs felt heavy and his mind lethargic. It took him a few minutes to realize that his eyes were closed and his head was resting on the back of Mal’s office sofa. She was perched on the arm next to him.

 

“You’re in perfect shape,” Arthur said, thinking it as he took in her still stunning figure. The words left his lips before his brain could figure out whether it would be inappropriate to say so. He realized, distantly, that Mal was running a hand through his hair. Her skirt had slid up.

 

Arthur covered the statement up by moving on to say, “And you can still dance.”

 

Mal leaned towards him though, a cool hand swooping over his brow. “So can you, Arthur,” she returned, softly. “Though, I don’t get to do much dancing these days.”

 

Arthur tried to hang onto the morose note in her voice, trying to sober up his thoughts, and it half succeeded. He’d managed to sit forward and lean away from her when her hands came up to frame his face. Arthur paused, suddenly nervous. If he wasn’t mistaken the emotion of the room had changed tangibly.

 

“Mal…?” Arthur shifted uncomfortably. Mal was smiling at him though, but in the way that he had always labeled ‘French.’ It was dangerous.

 

“Where did these grey hairs come from,” the words were so very melodic as she spoke them that she could have been singing. Her fingers lifted to brush against the shock of grey that had appeared in the last couple years at either of Arthur’s temples. She began to rub slow circles against Arthur’s temples with her thumbs.

 

When Arthur had brought the grey hairs up when they had begun to crop up a couple years prior Eames had said, simple and to the point, that it was better than Arthur going bald and he should be thankful that he got the chance to look distinguished.

 

That, the regular domestic memory of his partner, was enough to have Arthur raise his hands up to Mal’s wrists, holding them tight with the intention to pull her away.

 

“Pardon me--,” the doors opened and Eames and a harried secretary rushed in. Eames had obviously been coming back to see what was taking so long. When Eames stopped short and the secretary began to apologize to Mal Arthur realized, nauseas, what Eames must be seeing. How long had he even been sitting there with Mal?

 

Arthur and Mal, close together, hands on one another, leaned close. It was intimate.

 

“Eames,” Arthur rose from the sofa. No more words were forthcoming, but Arthur doubted there was anything he could say that would fix the horror on Eames’ face anyway. Eames motioned for Arthur not to talk, and then simply turned around and strode out of the office.

 

Outside, Eames unlocked the car with barely concealed anger. Muttering under his breath he slid into the driver’s seat, never mind that he’d never bothered to get an American driver’s license, and started the car.

 

He merged into traffic, gunning the car a bit harshly, and didn’t bother to look back at the gallery. He was only fairly certain he was heading in the correct direction.

 

X-_X-_X

 

The door hit the wall with a loud smack when Arthur stormed into the apartment. Nash almost nailed his thumb, and clambered down off his ladder before Arthur could be tempted to overturn it with Nash atop.

 

“Is Eames here?”

 

“…No?”

 

“Great,” Arthur let out a frustrated noise and ran his hand through is already thoroughly mussed hair. “Then he’s probably lost, driving back here in the wrong goddamn lane.”

 

Nash hid the hammer out of sight behind his back.

 

“I had to take the fucking _bus_ just to get to the _train._ ”

 

Arthur rubs at his face and leans against the newly barren walls. Now that he had a moment to look around he can see the apartment’s almost entirely empty. His books are gone, his art is gone, his _piano_ is gone.

 

And Nash is hanging a crucifix on the wall.

 

“Are we crucifying someone tonight?” Arthur asks, honestly curious about the three foot tall icon that Nash is wrangling. “Because, you know, I thought that went out of style when stripes did.”

 

Nash rolls his eyes (where Arthur can’t see) and says, “I traded that stupid moose head in for it. It was this or a Dale Earnhardt race car bed.”

 

Arthur sort of tips his head and says, “Well considering who these people are the race car bed might have been better.”

 

“And they threw in books!”

 

Arthur raps his knuckles against the wall and sighs. “Yes Nash, you’ve done an amazingly creative job, thank God I pay you just enough money to survive in this city.”

 

“Dad?” Ariadne hurries into the room and Arthur pushes up and off the wall, trying to smile. He’s fairly certain he fails at it though. “Did you do it? Did you talk to my mother? Is she coming?”

 

“Yes, she’s coming,” Arthur says, his bitter sarcasm going unnoticed by his daughter. Nash finally manages to hang the crucifix.

 

“Thank God,” Ariadne looks as if this solves everything, but Arthur’s still fairly certain his partner has probably been arrested for traffic violations and that the people at the pawn shop across the street are going to hawk all of his possessions that Nash dragged away.

 

Ariadne comes forward to wrap her arms around Arthur like she’s still a kid, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek. She mumbles her thanks into his chest and Arthur can’t help but feel a little better about the hell he’s been put through the whole afternoon.

 

“Well, jolly good, that’s all worked out then hasn’t it?”

 

Arthur turns and finds that Eames has entered the still open apartment door. He has the oddest look on his face, something that Arthur would be hard pressed to describe. He looks almost as if he’s resigned himself to something. However, the way his eyes trace Arthur’s movements looks like an accusation.

 

Eames’ expression was completely genuine—up until the point where Arthur moved to step forward. Then, all at once, the hysterical stage personality of the days before snapped into place.

 

With flare Eames announced to the room, “I just stopped to gather up a few things. Would you mind grabbing my overnight bag, Nash, dear?”

 

Arthur turned, pinning Nash with a glare, daring him to move. Looking between Eames and Arthur Nash began hesitantly stepping towards the door, and eventually just decided to try his luck and run and grab Eames’ bag.

 

“Oh, sweetheart, I would have loved to have the chance to see your children,” Arthur turned back around just in time to see Eames envelope Ariadne in a hug, pointedly not looking at Arthur standing next to her.

 

“Unbelievable,” Arthur muttered, “Where the hell do you think you’re going? This is not the day for a drama queen moment, Eames, and you are tap dancing on my last nerve. If you’re going to act the martyr don’t you think you had better fetch our new crucifix off the wall?”

 

“Keep taking the piss, Arthur,” Eames says, curt. “It’s something I’m certainly used to.”

 

“Not this again,” Arthur groaned, “Didn’t we have this discussion the other night? Should I lie in wait for a glitter bomb? Eames you’re acting even more ridiculous than you normally do, and you’ve been this way since before Ariadne came home. What is your problem?”

 

“Why don’t you ask Mal what my bloody problem is, Arthur? Why don’t you ask her while you’re all having your cozy, perfectly suburban family dinner tonight?”

 

Arthur and Ariadne stood side by side, Ariadne looking incredulously between them. Something cold was creeping its way up her spine and she was beginning to believe that she had walked into an already heated situation when she had come home.

 

“I’ve decided I have little choice in the matter,” Eames drew the words out, drawling in a put upon way. His words were penetrating, every bit of attention on him. Just the same as it was when he was performing on stage. “I’m going to go someplace where there’s a little bit more sodding equality.”

 

“Equality,” Arthur was hell bent to prevent himself from snarling the word. “You’ve been harping on about _equality_ for weeks. What is with you, seriously Eames? We are two middle aged gay men in New York, and we own a drag club! What equality are you specifically looking for?”

 

Eames looks at Arthur, really looks at him. He stares him down from the three or four feet that separate them. Then he sighs, and turns away. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

 

“Wait, Mr. Eames!” Nash comes from the direction of the bedroom, Eames’ overnight bag swinging in his grasp. Pink with zebra print, a Victoria’s Secret special with the word ‘Pink’ scrawled across it. “Don’t forget your bag!”

 

Nash throws his arms around Eames and says, “Please, I don’t want you to go. You really can’t leave me with just Mr. Arthur.”

 

Arthur supposed that maybe, possibly, that last part was meant to be a whisper.

 

Eames accepts the hug with aplomb and a carefully crafted bittersweet smile. It is entirely faked. Arthur can’t even believe Eames is standing there because the man has, on more than one occasion, complained about the amount of sweat that Nash manages to manufacture in a day.

 

“Nash, you can have my gemstones…”

 

“No I don’t want them!”

 

“…my scarves…”

 

“I won’t take them!”

 

“…and my wigs.”

 

Nash perks up and releases Eames. “Which wigs?”

 

Arthur rolls his eyes, his arms crossed. Eames tells Nash, “My best wigs, I certainly won’t need them where I’m off to.”

 

Arthur narrows his eyes, “Alright, I’ll bite. Where do you think you’re off to?”

 

“A grave, a ditch, a particularly deep puddle will surely suffice. Anywhere really, darling, just a place to die quietly, with whatever dignity I might still have.”

 

Arthur actually checks his pocket for his cigarettes before remembering that he doesn’t smoke anymore. “You need to get off whatever horse you’re prancing on, Eames. This is getting old fast. We’re not on stage, and we have too much work to get done before tonight.”

 

Eames licks his lips. “My horse and I will be off to prance now, thanks for the good years, darling.”

 

Despite Nash’s many exclamations the door closes quietly behind Eames.

 

Arthur balls up Eames’ sweater, still in his hands, and chucks it away from him. “’My horse and I will be off to prance now,’ his famous last words. And here I thought he was a better showman that that!”

 

Arthur stalks angrily towards the kitchen and pulls out a chair, sitting as angrily as possible at the table.

 

“What the hell was that?” Ariadne asks after a moment, “Jesus I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two fight light that.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur grumbles, “We fight all the time. What an asshole.”

 

Ariadne and Nash exchange a look. “Yeah…” she says, “but this is the first time either of you have left. Is Eames serious? Is he actually leaving to go somewhere?”

 

When Arthur shrugs and bats Nash off him from where the other man is trying to ingratiate himself for a hug, Ariadne begins to panic ever so slightly.

 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” their whole issue about Robert’s family coming and her engagement slips to the background. “Where’s Eames going, dad? Papa can’t, I mean he wouldn’t—is he leaving us?”

 

Arthur sits up straight and whirls around to face Ariadne, “Ari, no,” he’s off his seat in an instant, wrapping his arms around his daughter, “He’s not leaving you; he’d never do that to you.”

 

Arthur forgets sometimes that Ariadne grew up in a household with two parents that constantly showed their love for her. He forgets that Eames’ particular brand of melodrama has been witnessed before, but has never been directed at her in quite this fashion.

 

He realizes exactly how selfish the both of them, him and Eames, have just been.

 

“Listen,” Arthur says softly, slipping her hair behind her ear, “Papa Eames will be back in no time. If nothing else, he’s forgotten his wallet and his favorite handbag.”

 

Ariadne smiles, hesitant, and sort of shakes Arthur off. “Alright, alright.”

 

Arthur sort of smiles at her, embarrassed. His daughter, she’s one of a kind. This Fischer guy better know what a great wife he’s getting. Marriage is for everyone after all he supposes.

 

As soon as the thought passes through Arthur’s head he stills. His sudden shift must have shown because Ariadne looks at him funny and asks, “What?”

 

Arthur does some quick thinking. Some of what Eames has been saying starts to shift into place, forming an idea, a possibility. Arthur turns to Nash.

 

“Was Eames digging through the spare closet?”

 

“When?”

 

“Before Ariadne got here. Was he in the guest bedroom at all?”

 

Nash waves a hand, “How’m I supposed to know? I think maybe he was in there looking for that sewing kit with those fake eye sequins you know? But that was for last month’s Safari Show.”

 

Arthur groans and rushes towards the bedrooms. Ariadne follows and makes it as far as the living room before Arthur’s back, already tucking something into his pants’ pocket. “Nash, you need to start dinner, preferably as soon as possible and without a Jersey Shore break.”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Arthur sighs from the doorway. “Where else? I’m going after fucking Eames.”

 

Ariadne turns to Nash. “Can you even cook?”

 

“Your father seems to think so.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Arthur didn’t have to look far for Eames. The man was sitting, slumped and looking utterly exhausted, at a bus stop two blocks over. Arthur was relieved though; Eames could have gotten on the subway and rode around in a maze for hours just to spite him. Or he could have left altogether.

 

The only other person waiting at the stop was a college kid, leaning against the plexi-glass wall of the structure and looking decidedly bored. Arthur took a seat, as close to Eames as he dared without testing the other man’s ire. Eames moved away a fraction of an inch and didn’t look at him.

 

“When I was in high school I went an entire four months without talking to anyone, not to my friends, my teachers or my family. The school guidance counselor told my parents it was a stress reaction to the SAT.” Arthur started. He fidgeted with the line in his trousers for a moment, then he continued, speaking at an even pace. “At the dance school I forgot to eat for three and a half days because I was studying for an audition one of my instructors had gotten me. I passed out an hour before the audition and missed it because I was still in the hospital when I was supposed to be somewhere else.”

 

Eames’ gaze went from the busy streets to somewhere around Arthur’s feet. He still wasn’t looking at him, but at least he was listening.

 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Arthur leaned back and raised a hand to rub some of the tension out of his shoulder. “I do think you’re hysterical when we’re not talking about something we should be, I think you’re a drama queen, I think you couldn’t care less about how the club runs sometimes, and I know you think I’m too highly strung, which you make up for by not even pretending to be organized. You wear women’s clothing when we go grocery shopping, and you sing drinking songs horribly off key in the middle of the afternoon.”

 

“But I could give fuck all about that Eames. You’ve been a wonderful parent to _our_ daughter. You’re the only person that can snap me out of it when my moods get too deep. When I forget to eat, or sleep, or talk; you do something completely inane and off the walls and it makes me snap right back to reality without a pause. You make every day of my life seem better than the last. There was never any question that I wanted my life to be your life. Our club, our house, our daughter; I’ve wanted all of it to be for both of us, or for neither of us. There has never been another option to me.”

 

Eames’ lips press thin which Arthur knows means he’s fighting off some sort of reaction. Arthur thinks the college kid may have started listening in about halfway through, but he reaches into his pocket and decides he doesn’t care.

 

“So when you say you don’t think we’re equal, in our lives together, I have to call bullshit.” Arthur ever so carefully opens the lid of the box.  
  
Arthur figures at this point that this entire brouhaha has been because Eames discovered the ring and thought that Arthur had changed his mind. So he knows the ring won’t be a surprise to him, but Eames still looks down at the box like he’s looking at it for the first time.

 

It was a simple antique gold band, silver leafing running around the circumference of it. Arthur had paid an arm and a leg to get ‘My Dream, My Reality’ engraved on the inside. It was a throwback to sentiments they had exchanged twenty years ago when their life together began. When the marriage law passed in New York Arthur had gone out, set and ready  to buy a ring, propose, and show the rest of the world that their love was just as worthwhile as anyone else’s.

 

Then Arthur got nervous.

 

Eames had…peculiar political leaning. Arthur had started to overthink the decision. What would Eames say if the man assumed that Arthur was _only_ doing it because now the law said he could? What if Eames flat out said no? So Arthur put the ring in the closet, and told himself that their life together didn’t, nor would ever, need a piece of paper to validate it.

 

Now the ring sat here in his hand, Eames looking at it and Arthur waiting.  
  
“Twenty years together,” Arthur says, and he tries to smile because he’s gotten good at reading Eames over the years and he thinks he can tell what Eames’ expression means, “So what do you think? Ready to file joint taxes?”

 

“You’re sure?” Eames’ voice is a whisper, hesitant and afraid, so much unlike the man himself that Arthur wants to speak up and say that the insecurity is all wrong.

 

Arthur nods. “If you suggest a double wedding with Ariadne though, I have to tell you, we’re through at that point. Done.”

 

Eames sort of laughs, his voice wobbly, and takes the small box. “I have to tell you, darling,” and his usual confidence is returning by the word, “Don’t expect me to take your name, because I’m a modern girl, and we just don’t do that nonsense anymore.”

 

Arthur laughs, and it’s more a relieved half-sigh than anything else. He reaches over and pulls his and Eames’ foreheads together. He stays like that for a minute, watching Eames and letting them just breathe softly at each other.

 

“I didn’t mean to make any of this harder,” Eames says, “but when I found the bloody ring I couldn’t help thinking that you weren’t the type of person to wait on something. You always are decisive. You find new information and always immediately have a response to it. I thought it meant that you’d decided against it, love. Then, I couldn’t stop worrying about all this other rubbish too. What did it mean? Did you want to leave? Did you still love me?”

 

“All that romantic drama is for a much younger man,” Arthur says. He slips the ring out of the box and sits in it Eames palm, letting the other man make the decision. “I’ve known who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with for most of my life. I love you, and that’s a fact that won’t ever change. I love our life, and I love it because of you.”

 

Eames slips the ring onto the right finger and Arthur realizes the college kid is clapping for them.

 


	4. Chapter Four

**X-_X-_X**

 

Mal’s assistant is in the middle of updating her curriculum vitae, something she does several times a week when her employer gets on the bad side of demanding, when Mal’s direct line rings through to the desk.

 

“Hello?” she inquires. If it’s Mr. Cobb again she’s going to have to stop answering Mal’s direct line. There’s only so much fraught emotion she can handle in one day.

 

Amara is surprised though. “No, Mr. Halpert. I’m sorry, she’s already left for the day. Yes? Yes, I can take a message; she normally calls in to check them. Uh-huh, go ahead. Okay, don’t…come…to…dinner. Got it, Mm-hmm, you too.”

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Robert felt like he’d been in a fog for days. He couldn’t understand how he’d survived the car ride so far, and was starting to wonder how he’d survived his childhood. His father had taken the last half hour to illustrate how nationalized healthcare would corrupt the country.

 

Robert almost felt like pointing out that it was technically the largest middle class tax break in years, but felt that the following lecture would actually, probably, kill him.

 

Needless to say, Robert felt in a much better mood when they crossed the state line into New Jersey, and were that much closer to arriving in the city.

 

Maurice was listening to the radio.  
  
_“The Reverend Al Sharpton says that Senator Browning’s last words of ‘You’re money’s on the dresser, chocolate’ are racist and demeaning…”_

 

Maurice made a disgusted noise. Robert couldn’t help but agree, though for a different reason. Senator Browning had been his godfather, and Robert was more concerned about trying to remember if he’d ever eaten off the same plate as the man when he was a child. He was almost certain that at one point there had been a hug.

 

Robert wanted out of the damn car.

 

“That idiot, Browning!” Maurice snarled, “Now the blacks will start in.”

 

Robert’s mother tried for a soothing tone, but was closer to an opioid induced mumble. “Now, Maurice, Robert’s wedding will go a long way towards smoothing everything over. And I mean, come now, the Harpers are the perfect family really: modern enough, with traditional practices. Really, you should be thanking Bobby. We’re on our way to salvation.”

 

Maurice didn’t look convinced. Robert could sympathize.

 

**X-_X-_X**

 

Ariadne’s head was in her hands. Her father was still trying to explain what had happened, but she really couldn’t understand what he was saying. She thought that the sound of air rushing in her ears might be the indication of a panic attack approaching. She wasn’t sure though.

 

“And really,” Arthur sounded like he was trying to be purposefully light; “it was a question of your mother or Eames. I had to make a choice; everyone makes tough choices like these. So, I chose Eames.”

 

Arthur’s hair was slicked back, and his somber suit was finely pressed. He was ready except for the tie. He couldn’t get it perfectly straight; his hands were shaking.

 

“I thought you’d understand, Ari.”

Ariadne nods into her hands. She thinks she might be being selfish, but can’t muster up the energy to figure it out. All she can picture is the arrival of Robert’s parents and the inevitable fall out.

 

Arthur’s not paying too much attention to his daughter though. He’s nervous and feels off his game. He’s not a man used to too many things being out of his control. “I can’t get this damn tie straight. Well, the jacket will cover it, hopefully.”

 

Before he steps away from the full length mirror he’d been standing in front of in his and Eames’ bedroom he couldn’t help but say, “I look like my grandfather in a proper suit; he dressed like this in every picture. He killed himself when he was thirty five.”

 

Ariadne starts to jiggle her leg. While doing so she notices that her pumps have somehow gotten scuffed. Her heart begins to beat quickly at the bundle of irrational nerves that this realization has kicked up. She forces herself to look up at her father for lack of anything more constructive to do.

 

“Any last instructions?” Arthur asks, airy and sarcastic. He feels like pacing.

 

“No,” Ariadne says, frustrated. “Just don’t walk unless you have to.”

 

Arthur agrees to that but mentally saves that statement for later. He’s going to bring her down to the club sometime and ask her who walks worse: him or Big Danny Porter. Because, Big Danny Porter has twitched his hips at a forty five degree angle since the eighties. Ariadne should probably see it and use it as a learning experience.

 

“And, try not to gesture too much,” Ariadne continues. She nods at Arthur’s already airborne hands and he reluctantly brings them to his sides, “and don’t talk…too much.”

 

Arthur’s feeling less and less willing to go through with the night by the second.

 

“What does it matter,” Ariadne groans. “There’s no way this is going to work. This is going to be worse than that incident with Eames and the Kool Aid at that soccer game in junior high.”

 

“Football,” Arthur says, mainly because Eames isn’t there yet to say it for himself. Although Arthur privately agrees with Ariadne’s assumption he manages to come up with a halfhearted, “It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of everything and we’ll manage to get through it.”

 

The door of the room opens and shuts quietly and Ariadne and Arthur turn to take in the sight of Eames standing at the door, looking like a completely different man. Arthur can’t believe how suddenly and how completely this entire situation feels wrong.

 

Eames was good at getting into character, always had been. He could be entirely different people on stage and off. This situation was no different. He was playing a character, and he was doing it well, but his air, his confidence, and even something about the way he moved was off. It was obvious that this was one character that he could not force himself to be.

 

His steps over towards Ariadne and Arthur are stiff and uncomfortable. When he reaches them he takes a seat on the settee at the end of the bed, and for just a moment he loses character. Something that has almost never happened before.

 

It was obvious that this was something Eames just couldn’t do, not for five minutes, and definitely not for an entire night. Arthur’s face twists up.

 

“What?” Eames demands, “Doesn’t this farce pass muster?”  
  
Arthur gives the slightest shake of his head.

 

“Why? I’m dressed just the same as you two. Got rid of all the cosmetics, took my rings off; I’m just a mate now, aren’t I? Ariadne’s Uncle Eames.”

 

Arthur looked slowly down to Eames’ ankles and clears his throat. “What about those?”

 

Everyone’s eyes go to Eames’ crossed feet where hot pink cashmere socks can clearly be seen.

 

“Well,” Eames said, eyes shifting away and voice becoming flippant and haughty, “what twit would go to a dinner party without a bit of colour?”

 

When neither Arthur nor Ariadne replies Eames sighs, frustrated, and stands. “Let me guess, I’m even more bloody obvious trussed up like this?”  
  
“Maybe you could try…” Arthur’s voice dies before he can finish. It’s obvious to him now that he should have taken Ariadne at her word. There was no way that he and Eames could pull this off. It was an impossible job.

 

“No, this isn’t right, love,” Eames was tired and angry, and was willing to give up than go deeper into this. His shoulders sag and he shrugs at Arthur. Arthur feels guilty for not having another solution available for his partner.

 

Eames runs a hand through his hair and starts walking towards the door.

 

“You know,” he says weakly, turning a bit to look at Ariadne, “I really did just want to help.”

 

Ariadne doesn’t have a response for him. Eames tugs at his tie, jerking it from around his neck, and changes direction, heading into the en suite. He closes the bathroom door firmly.

 

“Come on, Eames,” Arthur goes to the door and knocks on it. “We’ll just deal with it okay? It’s not like we haven’t gone into things riskier than this? Remember disco night? If we can pull that off than this is easy.”

 

“Go away, Arthur,” Eames replies. He sounds exhausted and not shrill or upset like Arthur expects. “I’ll stay in here tonight, where I bloody belong.”

 

Ariadne leaves the room, feeling sick.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Ariadne enters the main room feeling as though she is spiraling out of control. Everything is slipping through her fingers and she doesn’t think she’s going to be able to manage getting her control back ever.

 

Nash is singing what sounds like “I work hard for the money” while he puts makeshift candy dishes on every flat surface. He is wearing his more professional uniform though he is completely barefoot.

 

“Can you put some shoes on, please,” she asks, following behind him and picking up each candy dish as he puts it down.

 

Nash waves a hand, when he speaks he’s over enunciating in a way that conceals both the queens and faux Guatemalan accents but makes him sound like a rugged Canadian. “No point. I can’t wear loafers. I fall over when I do. Flat, right onto my face.”

 

“Look, it’s going to be worse if you answer the door with no shoes at all. Just _please_ put some shoes on and stop talking like that. And check on dinner please. Something, just _do_ something.”

 

Nash huffs and walks off. The phone begins ringing. Ariadne only begins to pay attention when the answering machine picks up.

 

“ _Arthur, it’s Mal. I’m on my way but I just got a message telling me not to come…”_

Ariadne has the phone picked up and against her ear within a moment. “He said not to come _late_ , I was there. He said not to be late.”

 

“Oh,” the other voice replies. Ariadne notes a dozen different things about the voice. Its tone, the amusement playing behind the words, the way the other woman’s accent rounds itself on the vowels. It’s her mother on the other end of the phone. “Is this Ariadne?” her mother asks after only the barest of hesitations.

 

“Yes, it is,” Ari admits. It’s not easy. As a kid sometimes she used to have full arguments in her head with this woman that she never knew. Always demanding why she had left her. Ariadne had told Eames once. He had calmed her down, and his sweet words back then were part of the reason why she could really only muster up nervousness, and not resentment speaking with her now.

 

“I want you to know,” Mal says, voice clear, “how very happy I am to be able to do this for you.”

 

“Thank you,” Ariadne says, her parent’s bedroom door opening and closing behind her. “See you soon…mom.”

 

“Mom?” Arthur demands and Ariadne hangs up. “Did you just say mom? Was that Mal on the phone? I told her not to come.”

 

“I know,” Ariadne admits. “But you know it’ll make it more normal if she’s here. Things will go much smoother.”

 

“And Eames?” Arthur demands, “Think about what Eames will do when she turns up.”

 

“Nothing. He won’t embarrass me.”

 

Arthur wipes his brow. “So this is hell,” he says glancing around.  “And it has a crucifix in it.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

The chauffeur is stuck in the beginning of rush hour traffic just outside the club that Robert knows the Halperts own. A six foot gentleman in fishnets walks past them on one side, and a group of teens with leather jackets and colored hair on the other. Robert doesn’t think his jaw will properly hinge itself together again. His parents are looking around in befuddlement.

 

“This is less like fifth avenue than I imagined,” Robert’s mother offers.

 

“Well, over the decades a lot has grown up in this area,” Robert tries to say seriously. “They invested when the market was really good.”

 

“A lot changed in the nineties,” Maurice mutters, watching a bike messenger in a tutu fly by the car.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Arthur tries the handle again. “He’s locked himself in.”

 

Ariadne has a club soda instead of a brandy this time, administered under her father’s watchful eye, but he hasn’t spared himself another tumbler of whisky. He and Ariadne pause in front of the crucifix.

 

“I’m a Jew, and not a very good one,” Arthur says by way of introduction to the crucifix. “But if you could help out at all tonight I’d really appreciate it.”

 

Ariadne purses her lip, and the doorbell rings.

 

“Christ.”

 

Ariadne turns quickly to Arthur. “About the Jewish thing.”

 

“What Jewish thing?”  
  
“I know you’re non-practicing dad,” she says straightening his tie, “but Robert told them our name was Harper on the spur of the moment. To sound, well, less Jewish I suppose. More Anglo-Saxon.”

 

“Harper?” Arthur mutters, vaguely lost. He gives the crucifix a last baleful stare before following Ariadne to the apartment’s outer entrance.

 

Nash has reached the door before hem but trips over himself, landing as described face first on the floor. “It’s the shoes,” he replies mutinously.

 

“Perfect.” Arthur says.

 

When Nash opens the door the three people standing on their doorstep are the picture of a tasteful Time magazine cover. Dressed modestly and professional the Fischer family looks as though they just came from a charity auction. Nash invites them in, introducing himself as “Ignatio.”

 

“What a—exotic name,” Mrs. Fischer smiles politely.

 

“Welcome to the Halperts’ home,” Nash replies. He’s robustly reverted to his faux Guatemalan accent and seems damned determined to prove some sort of Latin heritage.

 

“Halpert?” Is Maurice’s first word. “I thought it was Harper?”

 

Ariadne is quick to step forward. “You’ll have to forgive _Ignatio_ , he’s…”  
  
“From Queens,” Arthur jumps in.

 

“Guatemala,” Nash protests.

 

“Right,” Arthur nods, “Lovely to meet you all, I’m Arthur _Harper_.”

 

Maurice introduces himself and Margot before introducing Robert to Arthur, whom Arthur finds himself shaking hands with warmly. Robert looks just as nervous as the rest of them are.

 

“Lovely dress, Mrs. Fischer,” Arthur says, “Favia Fraboni spring collection this year if I’m not mistaken.”

 

“You aren’t,” says Margot, taken aback and quite impressed.

 

“Oh dad,” Ariadne says, waving her hands in the air, panicked. “Always listening to me go on and on about fashion. What a great guy he is.”

 

Ariadne wouldn’t know a spring collection if the label stapled itself to her, and Margot’s curt smile says as much.

 

Arthur moves on quickly. “My wife is visiting her parents in Long Island, and I’m afraid she’s a bit caught up, she’ll be a few minutes more.”

 

They move into the sitting area, exchanging further pleasantries about the house and the Fischers’ trip down. Arthur’s eye twitches slightly when Maurice compliments the solemn décor of the apartment.

 

Margot notices the books that Nash had brought in earlier. “What lovely old books,” she says, approaching them. She reads the title, confused. “Nancy Drew…lovely. You have the whole series.”

 

“Sit down!” Arthur not so much says as shouts before nervously adding, “Please.”

 

Robert and Ariadne exchange a look as their parents sit down across from one another.

 

“Champagne?” Arthur offers, “To celebrate the occasion?”

 

“Oh yes,” Margot replies.

 

“Nash,” Arthur calls.

 

“Ignatio!” Ariadne calls over him quickly.

 

“Ignatio Nash!” Arthur amends, calling for their housemaid a third time. “His full name,” Arthur excuses. He feels sweat dampen his temple.

 

After asking for champagne Nash offers an elaborate bow before walking carefully back out of the room. Each step taken as if over landmines.

 

Ariadne smiles brilliantly across at her would be in-laws. She has no idea how they’re going to make it through the night.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Mort’s sweating by the time he and Tadashi navigate their way into a parking space. The sun has dipped below the horizon and street lights and neon signs dazzle every angle along the streets. The high buildings around them disappear into the sky with ease.

 

With sharp eyes he had caught sight of the Fischers’ chauffeur, leaning menacingly against the family’s town car. Pulling out his wallet with a sigh Mort jogs across the busy street and gives the man his best winning smile.

 

Without a pause the chauffeur says, “Double.”

 

“Not much of a negotiator are you?” Mort asks, not altogether displeased with cutting right to the chase. He eyes the pedestrians, a variety of young people in tight clothes, sequins, and myriad accessories, before he takes out his wallet. “You can guess what I want to know?”

 

“You want to know where the senator went,” the chauffeur drops his cigarette and grinds it against the pavement, glaring at a group that steps too close. “He went in _that_ club.”

 

Mort hides a quiver of anticipation. He could salivate he’s so intrigued. “A club?”

 

“He used a back staircase and went up, but it’s the same building isn’t it? Wherever he is, he’s under _the birdcage’s_ roof.”

 

Mort practically shoves the money into the man’s hands so he can start making his way back across the street. He hears the chauffeur mutter “God Bless.” On the curb he meets back up with Tadashi.

 

“He went up that stair,” Mort says hurriedly. He points around the side alley and grabs Tadashi’s arm in excitement.

 

“But that looks like it goes into the same building as that gay club,” Tadashi says doubtfully. He adjusts the camera in his grasp. He’s pretty sure they aren’t going to make it out of this without losing something expensive.

 

“Exactly!” Mort crows.

 

X-_X-_X

 

“It must be exhausting keeping up with two households,” Margot is saying offhand, trying not to stare at Arthur wringing his hands. “How long ago did you purchase this one?”

 

“Oh, we’ve had it for years now. We bought it ages ago,” Arthur struggles to sound the appropriate level of snobbish. “The area was mostly Jewish back then.”  
  
“Jewish, really,” Margot says, rather _too_ aghast. “New York City is shocking isn’t it?”

 

Nash returns to the room before Arthur has to reply. Ariadne beams in nervousness from her chair and crosses and re-crosses her legs.

 

“Champagne?”

 

“And a scotch if you have it?” Maurice adds politely.

 

As Nash sets the champagne bucket on a sideboard there comes a horrific clang that echoes through the spacious apartment. Ariadne’s eyes go first to Nash, confused and wondering if the bucket has tumbled, but Arthur’s eyes dart over the living room and towards the master suite. He knows exactly what the clang is.

 

“Is someone else home?” Margot asks, smiling to cover her confusion.

 

“Just our dog,” Arthur confirms mildly. “Piranha.”

 

“With a name like that it must be a vicious mutt!” Maurice laughs, accepting a tumbler of scotch from Nash.

 

“A man eater,” Arthur confirms. Ariadne chokes into her champagne glass, blushing and excusing herself when everyone’s eyes turn her way.

 

Nash fumbles the champagne bottle and grabs the edge of the table to stop from tripping himself up. Ariadne murmurs “We’ll manage,” and takes the bottle from him.

 

“Go finish dinner,” she hisses at him once she’s taken the bottle.

 

“He’s a terrific cook,” Arthur assures the table. Ariadne looks towards the cruciform and wonders if she should try a blasphemer’s prayer as well. It really couldn’t hurt.

 

Arthur lifts his wrist jerkily, trying not to appear anything but traditionally masculine in his movements. In a way that he hopes is stereotypically red-blooded American male he says, “Now, I wonder where the wife could be.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Twelve blocks away Mal is stuck in traffic while a group of New York City police officers attempt to break up what is either a political protest or a baseball rally. She can’t make out which.

 

Thumbing her phone she wonders if she should call ahead, and glances around outside the car before picking it up. Before she can drudge up the right number her phone flashes, buzzes, and begins humming Edith Piaf.

 

_Dominic_

 

Mal drops her phone into the cup holder and stares back out her window.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Arthur is trying to ignore the way that Ariadne is laughing amorously as Robert tells the parents in the room the story of how he proposed to Ariadne. Errantly, Arthur wonders what the technical term is for killing one’s in-laws.

 

“He was so odd and stiff!” Ariadne is laughing. Her eyes are bright, and her cheeks are flooded him warmth. She mimes his asking the question, her movements robotic and exaggerated. “It took the longest time to work out what he was saying!”

 

“What a lovely story,” Margot gushes, or tries to; she’s looking somewhat dissatisfied with her son.

 

“So, Senator,” Ariadne says when she’s calmed and sat back in her chair. “How was your drive?”

 

Arthur furrows his brow and tried to remember if he knows where Mr. and Mrs. Fischer are from. Illinois? Indiana? The senator goes on to wax poetic about the foliage on the drive and the _stunning_ geography they passed, and the _beautiful_ American landmarks they passed, and the _majestic_ pasts of the states they drove through.

 

“Goddamn campaign speech,” Arthur mutters incredulously under his breath.

 

“Hm?” The Senator pauses in his stump and leans towards Arthur.

 

“The foliage sounds _lovely_ ,” Arthur assures.

 

The house phone rings and Arthur and Ariadne perk their ears.

 

_“Hello? It’s Mal. Arthur? Ariadne? Eames? Oh, merde. Listen, I’m stuck in traffic I don’t know how much longer I’ll be…”_

Ariadne rises as subtly as she can and moves the phone from the receiver, stopping the voice recorder. The Senator launches into further exclamations concerning the beauty of the Pennsylvanian mountains and the rural forests.

 

Arthur, looking anything but enraptured, takes a beat and then clears his throat. “Was that my wife I heard on the answering machine? Ariadne, was that your dear _maman_?”

 

Ariadne hesitates to speak with her father sounding as strangled as he does. The words themselves are foreign in his mouth, and there’s no way that the tone of thinly masked disdain isn’t obvious.

 

“She’s, uh, stuck. But, she would like us to start dinner without her,” Ariadne manages a smile. “I would have answered but I was just so interested in the Senator’s story.”

 

“Oh, it wasn’t that good!” Maurice laughs off without humbleness.

 

“It was.” Arthur says with stringent finality. He rises and pins Ariadne with a measured look. “I better go let Nash—Ignatio Nash—know about the changes. He hates any dinner upsets.”

 

Arthur uses a side door and escapes out onto the lanai’i with Ariadne mumbling an excuse and following close behind him.

 

“This is worse than that time the club tried selling tapas!” Arthur hisses. He reaches, for the tenth time that day, for the pack of cigarettes that don’t exist and is forced to settle for rubbing his face and shaking his head. “What are we going to do? Do we wait for her?”

 

Ariadne rushes to smooth her father’s hair where it has come un-gelled and has begun springing into waves. “God, dad, you’re soaked? Is that sweat?”

 

Arthur shoots Ariadne a furious glance. “Show me a person that doesn’t sweat under this McCarthyism!”

 

Back in the sitting room a completely different conversation is being hissed between family members.

 

“There’s something very odd going on here,” Maurice declares, eyeing up one of the several candy dishes on display.

 

“It’s this thing with Browning!” Margot hisses back. She throws her back against her seat and empties her champagne flute. “The mother probably doesn’t want to be in the same house with us! The father is obviously a nervous wreck.”

 

“I’m sure that’s not it,” Robert says desperately.

 

“I agree,” Maurice says, shaking a finger, “No, there’s something else. It’s something about the father and the butler. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

 

“It’s nothing!” Robert whispers several times in panic. “You always think the worst!”

 

“Mark me boy…”

 

“Ariadne’s mother will be here soon,” Robert continues, tugging at his shirt cuffs. “You’ll see!”

 

“Sorry!” Arthur calls stepping back into the room. He visibly composes himself and gives the Fischers his best smile. “We’ll give her a half hour and then if she isn’t…”

 

The front door opens and shuts.

 

“Here I am!” The voice calling from the entrance hall is light, airy, and refined. The feminine lilt to the words is accentuated by posh vowels. It’s a proper Queen’s English that seems to be calling to them.

 

Appearing in the doorway is a sight that makes Arthur’s heart drop to his toes. Ariadne goes stiff and gasps. The Fischers turn towards the new arrival.

 

Striding into the room with confidence is Eames. In drag.

 

He’s wearing one of his best wigs, a sandy curled piece that sits in waves around his face, softening his cheeks and chin. He’s draped in a powder blue skirt suit and is wearing pearls, pumps, and a white silk scarf. Sitting predictably on his arm is a white leather handbag.

 

There is no way that a person is unable to realize that this person is a man wearing make-up and women’s clothing. Arthur begins fumbling through apologies and explanations in his head.

 

Eames beams at the room when he enters, waving a hand and sashaying towards the table. “Oh, you _will_ forgive me for being late I hope. Traffic was _dreadful_ , but it’s completely unforgiveable to have missed your arrival. Senator Fischer, Mrs. Fischer, I am so pleased to meet you at last. Ah! And this must be Robert, oh but he is a strapping lad isn’t he? Oh do come and let me have a look at you, my boy.”

 

Robert, with wide eyes, goes slowly towards Eames. Eames in turn titters and says delightedly, “Oh what a shy one you have here, nothing like our Ariadne in that regard I’m afraid.”

 

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Harper,” Robert says on instinct. He reaches out and briefly clutches Eames’ hand in greeting, his eyes wandering over to Ariadne and Arthur. The Fischers are looking taken aback from their seats.

 

“Halpert,” Eames corrects offhand.

 

“Oh, is it Halpert,” Margot asks, shooting Robert a chastening look. “I thought it was Harper?”

 

“We’ve had some confusion,” Robert murmurs to _Mrs. Halpert_.

 

Eames, ever one to catch on quick, shoots a look at Arthur, and when he receives a nod, begins quickly mumbling through an explanation. “You know how it is on the continent dear, Halpert in old Europe and er, Harp _ier_ in France where my husband’s family is from, the name referring to those who historically played the _harp_ , and of course, the name is Anglicized in America to _Harper_. Yes, you see you’re not wrong to be confused.”

 

Eames give a frivolous laugh and Arthur feels his heart re-starting in double time. When he looks over at Maurice it’s to discover that the senator is looking Eames up and down with _approval_.

 

“Oh that explains it,” Margot says faux warmly, looking more confused than before, but too polite to say differently. She eyes Mrs. Harper’s jewelry with some envy.

 

In obvious relief Robert shoots Ariadne a look and says, “Please, let me hug you, Mrs. Harper. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

“What the hell are you watching?” Chris pauses in the doorway to the production studio, a forkful of raman halfway to his mouth.

 

“Footage for the Browning special,” Dodd, assistant producer of Atlantic Cable News, replies. “And I think we found something interesting.”

 

Everyone in their room pins their eyes to the screen as the image is superimposed and magnified, bringing into view two men standing off to the side and speaking over one of Senator Maurice Fischer’s garden gates.

 

“Isn’t that the guy that writes for that Hollywood tabloid? The one with the harassment suit?” Chris comes fully into the room and distractedly puts his meal to the side. “What is he doing?”

 

“Well…” Dodd pushes a few buttons and slides and then let’s the image play.

 

_“Hey,” the reporter calls, jerking his head towards the edge of the gate. After a moment the Fischer family’s chauffeur comes into view. “Where are you driving ‘em?”_

_The Chauffeur looks around himself and then takes the money that the reporter is offering. “Greenwich Village, in New York City.”_

“What the hell is this?” Chris breathes.

 

“That,” Dodd says, spinning around in his chair. “Is proof that moral order Fischer isn’t out west at his ranch, he’s in goddamn New York City.”

 

Chris almost trips over himself trying to get out the door. “Jerry,” he shouts down the hallway, “Get our affiliate in New York on the line!”

 

X-_X-_X

 

“It’s wonderful what you’ve done here,” Maurice comments offhand, shooting a second look around the ‘Harper’ house during a lull in conversation. “So simple; so uncluttered.”

 

“Our home is a bit different,” Margot murmurs demurely. “But then again Maurice has so much work to bring home. Our men, they rule the world but they can’t pick up after themselves.”

 

Eames adjusts the pearls at his neck and gives a polite laugh; he looks at Margot as if they share a secret. “Oh absolutely, I’m lucky if Arthur can manage getting his clothes _in_ the clothes bin instead of _beside_ it.”

 

Arthur puts his hand on Eames’ and mentally begs the other man to be quiet. They only have to make it through some small talk, eat dinner, and then they can kick the Fischers out and call the whole thing finished.

 

Maurice, leaning into Eames’ personal space and smiling along says, “Oh, Harper I think these women are picking on us!”

 

Arthur, unused to mainstream fraternity in every way, has no response and finds himself crushing Eames’ knuckles in his hands. Eames’ own polished nails cut crescents in Arthur’s hand in revenge.

 

“But then again, maybe I’m just an old fashioned girl,” Eames recites, leaning back into Maurice’s space. “But I _do_ pity the woman who stays home and can’t take care of her man.”

 

Ariadne gives her father a look and tries very hard not to laugh.

 

“Hear, hear!” Maurice cheers, refilling Eames’ champagne flute and ignoring his own wife’s empty one. “You’re my kind of people!”

 

X-_X-_X

 

“Harper,” Mort repeats, “H-A-R-P-E-R.”

 

A moment later he shakes his head at Tadashi. “They can’t find any records.”

 

Tadashi furrows a brow. “But the club is registered to a Halpert they said right? Halpert, Harper; it’s sort of similar right?”

 

Mort takes his cell phone of his chest and puts it back to his mouth. “What about Halpert?” he asks, “Like the drag club out front?” In an aside to Tadashi he mutters, “Wouldn’t that be something?”

 

Tadashi shrugs, seems normal for a politician at any rate.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Maurice has relaxed completely ten minutes later. Eames has the man eating out of the palm of his hand. A few well-placed comments about the horrors of free speech and Maurice Fischer was looking at Eames like he was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and still hadn’t realized he was a burly Englishman wearing a skirt.

 

Arthur was still sweating though.

 

“All this fuss about school prayer,” Maurice rises to help himself to another scotch, “I’ve just never understood it. As if anyone, _even_ the Jews, would object to their kids praying in the classroom!”

 

“Oh it’s insane, I agree,” Eames rushes to say, fluttering a hand at the senator. Mrs. Fischer is looking at the tabletop in clear boredom.

 

Nash appears from the living room and stops in the doorway as if physically struck. He takes one look at Eames and breaks into uncontrollable, shrill giggles.

 

“Thank you Ignatio Nash!” Arthur says loudly, he jumps to receive the ice that Nash has with him and imperiously commands, “You may go,” with a heavy look.

 

“He’s very nice,” Eames is assuring their guests, “Though quite odd. We’ve never really understood what makes him laugh.”

 

Margot, sensing a topic she can get behind, becomes lively again and shoots a sardonic look at Nash’s retreating back. “At least he speaks English!” she sighs, “If you knew how many chauffeurs we’ve gone through in the last year…”

 

Maurice puts a hand on his wife’s leg to silence her. Margot trails off, and Maurice says, “Now, now, no need to bore them with that, dear.”

 

Arthur rejoins the table and stands behind Eames’ shoulder, the bucket of ice anxiously clutched between his hands. Eames doesn’t spare him a glance, merely leans towards Mrs. Fischer and says sympathetically, “I _do_ know what you mean. If you knew how many maids we’ve gone through in the last five years alone. I could name a dozen! Why there was Rodney, Harry, Jojo, Augustine, Vinny…”

 

With a start Arthur is loudly saying “Look! You all need more ice!” Without an invitation he begins circling the table, leveraging ice cubes into any glass he can reach. At the same time he shoots Eames a quelling look.

 

Eames, the picture of PTA defiance, gives a slight shrug of his shoulders and smiles into his glass. He flutters his eyes once at Maurice and sits back into his chair. Maurice looks charmed.

 

“I have such a good feeling about you people,” the senator declares, staring at Eames. “Not a lot of fancy art on the walls, not too many books cluttering up the shelves: just the crucifix! Now this is what Clinton didn’t pay attention to when he began rambling about school prayer and gays in the military!”

 

“Gays in the military,” Eames sighs and gives the room a bemused look, “now there’s an idiotic idea. Those haircuts! Those uniforms! Who cares?”

 

Ariadne rushes to join the conversation while Arthur does his best to elbow Eames with the arm holding the ice bucket. The last thing they need is Eames inspired into a chorus of “In the Navy!”

 

“Now, _mom_ ,” Ariadne murmurs, “you shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

 

Immediately, and rather sharply, Maurice comes to Eames’ defense, “Don’t patronize your mother Ariadne. I have found her to be an extraordinarily intelligence woman; such refreshing ideas. You know I’ve always thought homosexuality—,”

 

“Lots more ice!” Arthur hums, filling the senator’s glass.

 

“I’ll have some more ice, dad!” Ariadne chirps, shoving her own still full glass into the senator’s space.

 

“Homosexuality,” Maurice says again, speaking over Ariadne, “Is clearly one of the things that is weakening this country.”

 

“Really?” Eames eyes go wide and he looks imploring at the senator. “You know, that’s what I thought until I found out Alexander the Great was a pouf, talk about gays in the military!”

 

Eames laughs and flutters his eyelashes at the senator again. With no other excuse at hand Arthur stands up straight and exclaims, “How ‘bout those Giants!”

 

When all motion in the room stills and everyone turns their attention to him Arthur twitches and drops the ice bucket entirely. He tries to grin nervously, and manages to grimace.

 

“I’ll get that,” Ariadne says resigned.

 

Shaken out of his relaxed state the senator finally moves out of Eames’ personal space and sits back in his own chair. Taking a deep breath he says, “You know I think we’re skirting an issue here that apparently has Mr. Harper very nervous, and I don’t blame him.”

 

Stealing himself Maurice begins, “Now I know you’ve all heard the news about Senator Browning and how he died…”

 

After a beat Eames reorganizes his facial features into a somber from and says, “Oh, that. What an ugly story, of course we don’t believe a word of it!”

 

“What do you mean?” Maurice asks, intrigued. Margot uncrosses her arms and leans forward.

 

Arthur doesn’t know who Senator Browning is but he guarantees that before ten seconds ago Eames had no idea that the man had been living let alone had recently died.

 

“Well he has obviously been framed,” Eames declares with passion, “And I for one demand that there be a post-mortem examination!”

 

Arthur is one hundred percent certain the line is from a murder mystery that Eames played in a few years back.

 

“Mom,” Ariadne murmurs.

 

Reverently, Maurice, as if drawn by sunlight, leans back towards Eames. Hushed, he says, “That’s exactly what Rush Limbaugh said.”

 

“Oh?” Eames nods emphatically, trying to remember who Rush Limbaugh is. From Maurice’s look this appears to be a positive comparison. Eames tries to look satisfied.

 

“Excuse me,” Arthur says faintly and leaves the room.

 

Eames tips his champagne glass at the senator.

 

X-_X-_X

 

In the kitchen Arthur takes advantage of the distance to say, “I’ve never been this tense in my life! It’s like Don Quixote on approach to the windmill.”

 

Nash is paying very little attention to his employer. His hair is lank with sweat and grease and he’s pawing at various ingredients laid across the countertops. The kitchen is barely recognizable, and groceries of every variety are haphazardly piled on almost every surface.

 

“Dinner is going to be a little late,” Nash says. “Here have some wine.”

 

Arthur takes the wine from Nash and doesn’t hesitate to swallow the first mouthful straight. “The boy is nice,” he says, his mind still on his guests, “I suppose. He hasn’t said more than ten words. Hopefully he’s more than a pocketbook with a pretty face.”

 

Nash is frowning at the leafy stalk in his hand, uncertain if it’s a vegetable or a spice. “I feel bad for laughing but did you see Eames’ hair? It’s like a mop on a prize fighter.”

 

Arthur, as has always been a better choice in his life, ignores Nash. He takes another swig of the wine and discards it in the first empty spot he can find. “Fuck it. It’s just for one night. I can live through it. Or die. I could die too. That might be nice.”

 

When Arthur reappears in the living room it’s to hear Maurice Fischer lament that it’s illegal to kill abortion doctors.

 

“Dad,” Ariadne whispers, strained past her point of composure.

 

Eames is beginning to show signs of wear seated across from the senator. His jaw is hanging limply.

 

“I don’t necessarily agree with them,” Maurice admits, “But some people do say that if you stop the doctors you stop the abortions.”

 

“Well,” Eames manages to say incredulously, “that’s ridiculous. The doctors are only doing their jobs. If you want to kill someone, why not the mothers? That’s who’s really to blame at the end of the day.”

 

Arthur crosses the room in three quick strides. “Can I have a word with you? _Dear_?”

 

“Oh I know what you’re going to say,” Eames continues, shaking Arthur off and giving the senator a pompous eyeroll. “If you kill the mother then you kill the fetus. But the fetus is going to die anyway. Why not let it go down with the ship?”

 

Arthur sets his hands firmly on Eames’ shoulder and smiles at the Fischers from behind his wife’s chair. He digs his fingers as hard as he can into Eames’ shoulder blades. “I really need a word.”

 

Eames manages to avoid grunting in pain and sets down his wine glass. With a sheepish smile he says, “Excuse me.”

 

Maurice watches Arthur jerk Eames from the room with barely disguised disdain.

 

Ariadne clears her throat. “I assure you my mother is just following a train of thought to its logical but absurd conclusion, much the way Jonathan Swift did when he suggested the impoverished Irish peasants feed their babies to the rich.”

 

“I don’t know anything about a Jonathan Swift,” Maurice replies suspiciously, “but I know one thing about your mother: she’s a very passionate woman who follows her heart and I just adore her.”

 

Margot makes a low noise in her throat and turns to glare at her husband with raised eyebrows. “Adore?”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Mort is trying to make sense of what his producer is telling him over the phone. “So, in other words: Halpert owns the club, and lives above it, and owns the building…and he’s gay?”

 

A moment later he ends his call with smug satisfaction. “We’re going to sell the story of a year!”

 

Tadashi eyes a group of leather daddies cutting through the alley and making their way towards the front of the club. “Okay.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Arthur has managed to regain some composure when he and Mrs. Fischer manage to strike up a lively conversation about music. Delighted, he leads her to his piano on the other side of the room and invites her to play a familiar tune with him. Moments later she’s joining him in reciting the words to the song.

 

Arthur feels his spine loosen when Margot Fischer shoots him what may very well be her first genuine smile of the night. Her fingers dance across the keys just as quickly as Arthur’s do.

 

Across the room Maurice invites Eames to dance and Robert and Ariadne are quick to mimic them. Disregarding the actions of her husband, Margot doesn’t spare Maurice and Eames so much as a glance.

 

Eames raucously joins in at the next chorus, an entire register higher than he normally sings. He has very kindly allowed Maurice to lead their dance.

 

“I hope your mother doesn’t expect us to have children right away,” Robert says to Ariadne, still very clearly affected by the right wing track that their night had taken so far. _Abortion_ for Christ’s sake.

 

“Not my mother,” Ariadne reminds him.

 

“Right,” Robert doesn’t seem reassured and Ariadne shakes her head, exasperated.

 

Nash bursts through the French doors at the other end of the room on the final chorus and gives a robust, and surprisingly good, rendition of the verse. The mood of the night has lightened considerably and instead of being taken aback the Fischers applaud Nash when the piano finishes.

 

Arthur, relieved, claps along gamely before glancing at his hands and his posture and attempting to straighten them both out, literally and figuratively. Mrs. Fischer appears not to have noticed.

 

“Thank you all,” Nash replies with a Broadway worthy curtain call. “Dinner is served!”

 

Eames leads Maurice towards the dining room. Remarking on the song he says, “You know, I’ve played Liza Minelli.”

 

With warmth Arthur hears Maurice reply, “And I bet you were lovely!”

 

He can’t help but bark a laugh.

 

On the way in the dining room Arthur grabs Ariadne by the elbow and murmurs, “Go write a note to Mal and tape it to the gate downstairs. This might not end like the Spiderman musical after all.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

Arthur is willing to concede that occasionally Nash is competent. His eyes sweep the dining room and Eames directs their guests into their seats and Arthur fails to see anything other than a properly set table with fine dining adornment.

 

With some relief Arthur takes his seat, opposite Eames, at the far end of the table. Maurice, of course, has sat on Eames’ right and is nodding along to everything the man, or rather woman, has to say.

 

“Just what I’ve always dreamed,” Eames sighs dramatically and sets his hand over Maurice’s, “A large family all gathered around the dinner table. The same way it was when I was a girl.”

 

“Yes, that’s the way it was when I was a boy back on my father’s farm!”

 

“It was a wonderful world then, wasn’t it?” Eames looks imploringly around the table and wistfully recounts the past, “Everyone was happy, and everyone spoke English. There were no drugs, and no AIDS!”

 

“Easy on the wine, Mom,” Ariadne murmurs rejoining the table and politely tugging the wine from Eames. She fills her own glass and extends her arm to fill Margot’s. Margot squints at the label of the wine and then looks away with a slight hum when Ariadne looks at her.

 

“This is very interesting china,” Margot sniffs, sounding anything but interested. “It looks like boys playing leap frog. Is it _continental_?”

 

Arthur whips his head around to connect eyes with his partner at the other end of the table and even as he drops his gaze down to look at the plates and bowls Eames is picking one up with confusion.

 

“Oh!” Eames exclaims, his falsetto bouncing between the walls of the dining room. “I—I have no idea, I’ve never seen these bowls before.”

 

“Robert, go fetch my reading glasses,” Mrs. Fischer commands her son, there’s a sneer hanging around her upper lip and she’s trying to look more closely at the plates.

 

Maurice, not to be left out, picks up the bowl in front of him and pats a hand against his breast pocket looking for his own glasses. “Yes, the coloring does seem European. There’s well, it looks like _naked_ boys…”

 

“And girls!” Eames interjects. He tilts his bowl away from the senator and says, “I have a girl here, don’t you?”

 

Ariadne raises her head from peering into her own bowl and fixes her father with a horrified face. “I have a girl too!”

 

Margot cranes her neck to see into Ariadne’s dish but Ariadne deftly maneuvers out of Margot’s eyeline and to the side as if she were trying to get better lighting to look at the bowl.

 

With rapid clarity Arthur is remembering a 1998 trip to Saint Petersburg, Florida and he and Eames buying pornographic tableware from a little shop downtown. He has no idea where Nash has managed to dig it up from.

 

“Oh look,” Eames murmurs, “Look at your bowl there Senator Fischer, that one looks like a girl…”

 

Maurice looks to where Eames is pointing and replies, “Then it’s been a long time since you’ve seen one, that’s a boy. I may need glasses, but that’s a boy.”

 

Arthur dives for the kitchen as fast as he can.

 

“Well, ah, yes,” Eames shrugs his shoulders at Ariadne in a ‘he’s not wrong’ sort of gesture.

 

“I couldn’t find your glasses,” Robert tells his mother with faux regret, rejoining the table and giving Ariadne a heavy look. “Sorry.”

 

“Well I’ve got mine here somewhere,” the senator mutters, patting his pocket again.

 

X-_X-_X

 

In the kitchen Arthur has only just refrained from strangling or beating Nash but is berating him as the maid ladles spoonfulls of soup into a large decorative bowl.

 

“What kind of idiot doesn’t look at the bowls first?” Arthur demands, “Or did you just think that the senator and his wife needed depictions of toe curling orgasms _with their soup_?”

 

“It’s not my fault!” Nash whines petulantly, “I was busy cooking dinner!”

 

Arthur’s rage has very nearly peaked, all of his stress returning in light of this newest disaster. He knocks the ladle out of Nash’s hand and picks up an oven mitt with one hand. “We don’t have time for this! Hand me that ladle.”

 

Arthur picks up the saucepan and storms back towards the dining room. Nash holding a handful of shrimp up, fruitlessly, in his wake.

 

Re-entering the dining room, Eames shoots him a pleading look as Maurice Fischer has just apparently succeeded in finding his eye glasses.

 

“Now let’s have a look!” Maurice cries jovially, patting at Eames’ arm. Eames gives him his best impersonation of a supportive smile.

 

“Ah, here’s the soup.” Arthur rushes to the senator’s side and hastens to ladle a large spoonful into the man’s bowl, obscuring the fine hip bones and large endowments of the young men painted there.

 

Arthur rushes to fill as many of the guests’ bowls as possible, lies falling from his lips as quickly as he can form them. “Ignatio’s famous soup. He doesn’t make this for just anyone. This seafood chowder is an old family recipe and hails from…uh, his ancestral home in—Guatemala.”

 

“Isn’t that an egg?” Margot questions as Arthur dispenses her own serving.

 

Arthur casts a suspicious glance into the pot. “Uh, yes, a _huevo_ as Ignatio’s people call them. This is _so_ Guatemalan, they put hard boiled eggs in everything down there. After all the chicken is their only real form of currency.”

 

When Arthur reaches Eames the Englishman gives a panicked tug at Arthur’s trousers but Arthur’s logic and reasoning has left him entirely and he’s speaking quickly in panic, hoping no one has managed a good look at the bowls. “A woman is said to be worth her weight in hens and a man’s wealth is measured by the size of his cock.”

 

Eames hands twist so hard in the table cloth that he jerks his napkin from the table and his cutlery falls to the floor with a clamor.

 

Arthur, chest heaving and forehead slick with sweat, politely smiles. “Will you excuse me?”

 

The entire table watches Arthur retreat to the kitchen in silence. Eames clears his throat. Twice.

 

X-_X-_X

 

“What the hell are you serving?”

 

Nash scuttles across the kitchen after Arthur as the taller man throws the pot of soup wholly into the sink.

 

“Sweet and sour peasant soup! What are you doing telling them it’s seafood chowder?”

 

“ _What the hell is sweet and sour peasant soup_?” Arthur barely manages to contain himself.

 

“I don’t know,” Nash exclaims, his eyes wide with panic, “I made it up! _I made it up!_ ”

 

“Oh, God.” Arthur closes his eyes and breathes. “This is a nightmare.”

 

Nash turns around with a huff and trips in his new shoes, tumbling to the tile. Arthur takes ownership of the cooking wine.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Eames has managed to return some form of relaxed ambiance to the room and smiles politely as he leads the table in picking up his spoon and swallowing his first mouthful of soup. He pauses, smile turned to concrete against his cheeks, and tries not to react as salty, bland, sourness batters his taste buds.

 

Almost as one the table reaches for their water glasses.

 

Giving himself a moment to recover Eames adjusts his lace cuffs and turns to Margot. “So, where are you staying in New York?”

 

Margot sets her spoon down with relief. “We’ll be staying with the Trumps in Manhattan. Old friends of Maurice, you know.”

 

“Oh, Manhattan,” Eames eyes light up with genuine appreciation; appreciation that only someone not originally from New York can have for the city. “My parents loved making trips to Manhattan before they died.”

 

Maurice’s brow furrows, “I thought you were just visiting your parents in Long Island. Isn’t that why you were late?”

 

Caught unawares Eames’ put-upon female soprano dips into masculine baritone. “What?”

 

Catching Ariadne’s eye Eames clears his throat and tries to create a seamless recovery. “Oh yes, now that they’re, er, dead they moved...were moved— to Long Island…because…”

 

Eames gesticulates in the air with a bit of French bread, unsure of where exactly to go next. He dabs at his forehead with his recovered napkin. “My mother always said they loved Manhattan so much that they wanted to be buried in, er, Long Island.”

 

Not even Maurice Fischer is sure how to respond. Eames swallows and gives the room his most winning smile. He asks Margot to pass the bottle and refills his wine.

 

Ariadne _very_ quickly excuses herself and heads for the kitchen.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Ariadne rushes across the tile and grabs her father’s arm. Arthur is sitting at the breakfast bar with his head in his hands and his hair has begun rising in every direction.

 

“Dad you’ve got to help, everything is going to hell in there.”

 

Ariadne can’t quite catch Arthur’s response. “What?”

 

“He didn’t make a fucking entrée,” Arthur groans, dropping his hands.

 

Ariadne very slowly turns to look at Nash who is huddled at the other end of the kitchen island. “What? What do you mean we don’t have an entrée?”

 

“The peasant soup is an entrée,” Nash wails, “It’s like a stew!”

 

Ariadne feels her knees go weak and she feels herself begin to give up right then. She leans heavily on the counter top and focuses on her breathing.

 

“Why do you think I put so much in it!” Nash protests.

 

“Shut up!” Arthur hisses, rising in one long movement.

 

“Go check the door downstairs and see if Mal has been here,” Arthur instructs Ariadne, “I have to get back in the dining room before they all eat enough to see the bottom of the bowl.”

 

Nash bursts into much aggrieved tears.

 

“Shut up!”

 

X-_X-_X

 

“There’s CNN!” Mort is pissed as yet another news agency has pulled up in front of the club and has begun staking out the area around the Fischers’ very noticeable town car.

 

“Look,” Tadashi points at the apartment’s stair entrance from their vantage point. A young woman has just come down the stairs, checked a piece of paper hanging discretely on the rail, and disappeared up the stairs again.

 

Mort hurries across the alley, looking each way once before snatching the paper off the railing. “Mal, whatever you do don’t come upstairs. I’ll call you tomorrow, Arthur.”

 

“What the hell do you think that means?” Tadashi asks.

 

“That this is going to be good.” Mort says confidently.

 

X-_X-_X

 

“And from that day forward,” Eames is finishing a story, “My parents always refused to live in any district represented by a labour politician.”

 

Ariadne rejoins the table again, trying to read Robert’s parents’ faces. Margot looks exquisitely bored and Maurice looks as though he’s still rather enthralled with Eames’ neo-conservatism but failing to understand it’s finer points.

 

“Just in time for desert,” Arthur says pointedly when his daughter sits.

 

The Fischers, still bravely sipping at the horrid soup from their mostly full bowls, pause and look confusedly towards their host.

 

“Lovely,” Eames says. “Who would like some coffee, hm?”

 

He stands, dusting his skirt off, and leaves the room with the table’s last bottle of wine before anyone else can follow.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Outside, the Fischer’s chauffeur is holding auction with ACN’s associate producer.

 

“Three hundred,” the woman is telling him severely, “And that’s out best offer.”

 

The chauffeur shrugs and takes the cash.

 

“So where are they?” the cameraman demands. “All that’s here is a bunch of gay clubs.”

 

The chauffeur leans forward and begins describing the side alley.

 

Three blocks down Mal has managed to find parking and is hurrying as quickly as she can towards _the birdcage_. Dance music is filling the night air.

 

X-_X-_X

 

“Well,” Arthur says after an espresso. “What do you think of these kids getting married?”

 

The senator makes an unhappy face. “Well, Robert’s only twenty-one, and with quite a few responsibilities already naturally I feel he’s…

 

The senator trails off when the floor underneath them begins to shake almost imperceptibly and heavy music beats can be heard from below them.

 

“Good heavens, what on Earth is that?”

 

“Is that coming from the nightclub on the corner?” Margot demands. “This must be the same building?”

 

“Oh, you’re joking,” Eames says, pretending to listen to the sounds coming from beneath them. “I always thought that was someone’s television set.”

 

Arthur gives Eames an incredulous look, trying to tell him with his eyes to stop baiting Mrs. Fischer. “Now, now mother,” he says, trying to imitate Maurice’s air, “You know we live above a night club.”

 

Trying to imagine what a middle-aged straight man might say to cover his wife’s gaffe, Arthur continues, “She’s travelled the world with me, but deep down she’s still the girl from the Sussex countryside.”

 

Maurice, instead of nodding solemnly as Arthur expects, shoots him a dirty look instead. To Eames the senator says, “Now, the Sussex countryside may not be the same as high faluting French society, but it sounds like a darn good place to call home and you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

“Oh, thank you,” Eames replies warmly, and more than a little smug. He rises to pour himself another cup of coffee and offers the senator a few more gracious words while he does so.

 

The moment Eames leans over to pour the coffee Arthur can see disaster looming once more. Between the heat of the night and sweat from nerves, Eames’ wig has become loose. When he stands again, smiling disarmingly at the room, his hair is hanging sideways on his head.

 

Robert has noticed the wig as well and jumps up quickly, putting his frame between Eames and his parents. “Where’s the bathroom?”

 

“I’ll show you,” Ariadne offers on impulse, only just noticing what’s happened as she does so.

 

“That’s alright,” Robert says, trying to be as charming and as innocent as possible. “I would love for Mrs. Harper to show me.”

 

Arthur is standing the next moment as well, wrapping his arm around the base of Eames’ neck and doing his best to shoulder the man out of the room. “I’ll go with you darling.”

 

“Why don’t I go too?” Ariadne joins the tangle of limbs and provides coverage for Eames’ left side as they all attempt to walk towards the hallway in tandem.

 

“Oh my wonderful family,” Eames is gushing, trying to figure out the motive behind this newest effort. “They’re so wonderfully supportive—I could just cry!”

 

The door to the master bedroom closes firmly behind them.

 

Alone in the living room Margot turns accusingly to Maurice. “Something very strange is going on.”

 

“I know,” Maurice agrees with a ‘tut’.

 

“That dinner,” Margot continues, “And I _know_ there was something on those bowls. And then the daughter disappearing like that while we were eating?”

 

“I know exactly what’s going on,” Maurice declares. In the absence of their host he stands and pours himself a scotch from the sidebar.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Mm-hmm, oldest story in the world.”

 

Margot leans forward. “What is it?”

 

Maurice, with great authority, says, “She’s a small town girl and he’s a pretentious European wannabe. Him with his decadent china, Latin butler, and Italian suits. Ha! It’s obvious.”

 

“What’s obvious?”

 

“She can’t stand him!” Maurice says emphatically, “You can tell. He’s such a snob! With that dig about Sussex, and him going on and on about his _world knowledge_. The contempt that Harper has for her. Did you see him when she was talking? He looked almost afraid. And _he’s_ in the kitchen and _he’s_ serving dinner. He doesn’t let her run the house at all!”

 

After a few moments Maurice’s stewing calms and he catches sight of his wife’s face. She looks thunderous.

 

“What?”

 

X-_X-_X

 

The group in the bedroom is gathered around Eames’ vanity, the various creams, accessories, and cosmetics of his daily life scattered around them.

 

“I’m so bloody sorry,” Eames is rubbing his forehead tiredly. “I’ve ruined everything.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur says, rifling through the drawers of the vanity. “Neither of those idiots noticed the wig.” He realizes Robert is still with them and murmurs “Sorry.”

 

Robert is far from minding. He’s enthralled with the items that Ariadne is pulling out of the vanity and handing to him to hold. Both she and her father appear to be searching for something.

 

“Where’s the spirit gum?” Arthur grumbles.

 

“I don’t know,” Ariadne mutters back, one hand still rubbing soothing circles into Eames’ shoulder. “Oh, here’s a barette?”

 

“If you don’t move your head too much that might work,” Arthur says.

 

“Thank you, Ariadne,” Eames touches her chin. “That’s my sweet girl.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

“I notice you didn’t have this same sympathy for poor Mrs. Browning!” Margot says cuttingly, rising from her chair and taking long strides away from her husband. She hasn’t taken kindly to Maurice’s infatuation with Mrs. Harper.

 

“Maybelle Browning is an insensitive cow, Mrs. Harper is a lady!” Maurice protests, “I don’t understand you, she’s going to be your in-law too!”

 

“Well, if you think Mr. Harper is so terrible then maybe your son shouldn’t marry his daughter, hm?”

 

“I don’t think he’s terrible in _that_ way,” Maurice reasons, “I mean, he’s not going to get mixed up in some awful scandal like Browning did.”

 

Margot rounds on her husband. “I don’t think I’ve ever _seen_ you before.”

 

“What on Earth do you mean?”

 

“We’re halfway across the country and you’re not worried about Robert at all! What am I supposed to do? Carry the family while you sit there and worry about your career? And Mrs. Harper?”

 

“Oh please!” Maurice returns, “You’re just as worried about my career as I am. And you’re the one that’s pushed for Robert’s marriage. Mrs. Harper isn’t like you, she’s vulnerable; she needs compassion. It just breaks my heart; they don’t make women like that anymore.”

 

Margot brings her arm back to smack her husband across his puce colored face, but the doorbell rings before she manages to do so.

 

“’Allo!” A musical voice trills from the front door. “I’m home! I forgot my key!”

 

“Who is it?” Maurice calls out, confused.

 

“Ariadne’s _maman_ ,” The woman at the door calls back. “Mrs. Halpert! Is Arthur there?”

 

“Ariadne’s _mother?”_ Maurice turns his question to Margot. Despite the argument a moment before they exchange confused looks. Maurice sets his scotch onto the coffee table.

 

“Mrs. _Halpert_?” Margot calls towards the door, complete derailed. She drops her finely manicured hands to her waist and she and Maurice head closer to the entryway.

 

“Aha,” Maurice grabs his wife’s elbow and shuffles her towards the door at a quicker pace, “This is the whole story! The son of a bitch has a live in mistress!”  
  
The woman standing outside knocks again and Nash comes from the direction of the dining room with wide eyes.

 

“I’ll get the door,” Maurice says imperiously and rushes ahead of Nash.

 

“No, no, no, no, _no_.” Nash, sans fake Guatemalan accent, throws his hands in the air and tries vainly to think of something to say. Panicked he calls: “You’re at the wrong house!”

 

When Maurice opens the door an elegantly dressed Mallorie Cobb strides confidently through the door.

 

“Good evening!” Nash coughs and tries to put his accent back in place. He sidles up to Mal and awkwardly asks, “May I take your coat…as usual? Or—uh—for the first time?”

 

Mal murmurs her thanks and shoves her coat and purse at Nash, breathless from her quick walk up the steps she turns to the Fischers and begins to introduce herself with well-crafted manners. “You must be Senator and Mrs. Fischer, I am Mallorie Halpert, I am delighted to meet you.”

 

Mal has the perfect mix of charm and respect, but lacks the knowledge of what has transpired in the Halpert home for the past hour and a half. When she turns her smile on the Fischers they simply gape at her in return. “Please excuse me for being so terribly late but…”

 

“Sorry for taking so long,” a refreshed Eames calls as the group returns to the living room, “But Robert wanted to see the rest of the house…”

 

There’s silence as the two groups struggle to take in the situation around them.

 

“What is _she_ doing here?” Eames demands, his hands and arms lose their feminine grace and fall flat to his sides.

 

“Let me explain,” Arthur murmurs quickly, conscious of his guests’ eyes on him.

 

“Yes, please do explain,” Maurice demands, “Why don’t you explain it to all of us? I don’t want to embarrass the lovely Mrs. Harper, but exactly how many mothers does your daughter have?”

 

“What?” Arthur asks, stunned.

 

Ariadne and Robert exchange a glance.

 

“Well,” Maurice continues, pinning Arthur with as much disdain as he can manage. “This woman here has just introduced herself as Ariadne’s mother. So, I’ll repeat myself, Harper, how many mothers does Ariadne have?”

 

Arthur looks to Eames for guidance on this, and the look on his partner’s face mirrors his own. The jig is up. Eames, shrugs his shoulders, relaxing out of his character, and opens his mouth to explain.

 

“Just one,” Ariadne speaks up. She comes out from behind her parents and puts one of her hands in Eames’ larger one. With the other hand she draws the wig from Eames’ head.

 

With an intake of breath Eames puts a hand to the top of his head, discomfited at being unmasked, as such, in front of the Fischers. Looking at Ariadne though, his mouth curves with warmth. Perhaps his little girl isn’t ashamed of him after all.

 

“This is my only mother,” Ariadne says simply. “My father owns the nightclub downstairs and my mother is the club’s most successful star. I was worried of what you would think Mr. Fischer, but now I realize that I was wrong to worry about what you would think.”

 

Ariadne gives Eames' hand a squeeze and feels her eyes water looking at one of the true pillars of her life. "Only a parent would have gone to the lengths that you went to to help me, Eamsie. You've always been my family."

 

Eames, looking struck, fumbles a moment before gathering Ariadne up against him. "I love you, pet, and not even the best efforts of heterosexual mid-western suburbia will change that."

 

Maurice is wholly taken aback. “ _What_?”

 

“We lied to you,” Ariadne replies. “Robert and I lied to you, and everyone else lied to help us. These are my parents.”

 

With a gesture Arthur feels the day’s tension go out of him. Whatever comes now, they have the truth on their side and that, at least, they can take pride in. He takes Eames’ hand from Ariadne and approaches the Fischer as a couple.

 

“I own the club downstairs,” Arthur admits, “And this is my partner, Eames, who has been Ariadne’s other parent, a mother in every sense of the word but gender.”

 

Turning to Mal, Arthur says, “And this is the woman that gave birth to Ariadne.”

 

Mal, with a flippant look at the Fischers, comes forward. She reaches a hand out and offers it to Ariadne. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Ariadne, you’re a lovely woman, and you have your father’s honest compassion.”

 

To Eames, Mal turns kind eyes and says confidently, “You’ve done a wonderful job with her.”

 

“Thank you,” Eames murmurs cautiously.

 

“I don’t understand,” Maurice murmurs, looking practically lost at sea.

 

Margot, always the most put together face in the crowd, clarifies “Robert? Arthur owns the nightclub downstairs? And he’s not a cultural attaché?”

 

“No,” Robert says, more than impressed with the integrity of Ariadne’s family. He feels himself bolster. “And, he isn’t married to a housewife. Their name isn’t Harper; it’s Halpert. They’re Jewish.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Maurice repeats with feeling.

 

“He’s a man,” Margot hisses, pointing at Eames still standing there in his powder blue skirt suit. “They’re _both_ men.”

 

“This can’t be,” Maurice’s brow frowns and he rounds on their hosts. “You’re Jewish?”

 

“Maurice!” Margot throws her hands up and almost loses her very finely honed patience. With exasperation she strides towards the Halperts and yanks Eames forward with impressive strength. Holding Eames hand up Margot exclaims “This is a man!”

 

Maurice still seems to be having difficulty. The golden image he has in his mind of Mrs. Harper is clogging up his logic.

 

“Don’t you understand,” Robert demands, his face mirroring his mother’s in a rare moment. “They’re gay. Like, George Takei gay. They own the nightclub downstairs. The _drag_ club. They’re _both_ men.”

 

Eames clears his throat and steps around Arthur and Ariadne. He approaches Maurice, heels clacking on the tiled entryway. “Senator, I want you to know I meant exactly what I said about a return to family values.”

 

Maurice takes a half step back for every step that Eames takes towards him. Nearly backing into Nash the Senator stops and raises his hands, “I don’t understand what you _mean_.”

 

Mal, losing patience herself, mutters “ _Americans_ ,” under her breath and opens her mouth to try to add clarity to Ariadne’s conception. Before she can explain the time she tempted a gay man into her bed Eames interrupts and tries, again, to make Maurice understand the situation.

 

“Maurice, it’s still bloody well _me_ ,” Eames assures the pale man. “Nothing’s changed, I’m still Ariadne’s parent, Mrs. Harper if that name makes you feel better. That hasn’t changed. There’s nothing different. Well, just one small difference really,” Eames chuckles, unable to help himself. “Well not _that_ small.”

 

Maurice drags his eyes up from where they have wandered down to Mrs. Harper’s skirt. He looks to Margot for help. “I don’t understand.”

 

Margot rolls her eyes.  “I’ll explain it to you in the car, come on. Robert, come on.”

 

With a nerve that Robert rarely has the opportunity to feel he waits for his mother to reach the door by his father before he says, firmly, “No.”

 

“Oh, Robert!” Margot is beginning to reach the end of her own rope, “Don’t do this now. I may not be as _vulnerable_ as Mrs. Harper but you will respect me as well! Someone around here needs to start respecting _me_!”

 

With the frustration of the evening clearly boiling over Margot begins to stream angry tears. Maurice, on instinct if nothing else, bundles Margot towards him and commands, “Robert! You need to come with us!”

 

“Father, please,” Robert swallows hard, his hand clasping at Ariadne’s. If he has the choice he’d rather stay with this family, with this affectionate family.

 

“Robert, please don’t do this now,” Maurice’s eyes are wide and wild. “I’ve made your mother cry, I’m up for re-election, I’m in the middle of a scandal, I’m in the home of a gay couple who own a nightclub; I know you want to get married, Robert, but how many lives do you have to ruin to do it?”

 

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot upwards. He may have finally just seen what true dysfunction looks like.

 

Robert, feeling stunned and appalled, waits a moment before forcing his body into movement. With such a profound feeling of disappointment, he looks once more at Ariadne before, yet again, obeying his father.

 

Pausing in front of Arthur and Eames Robert murmurs, “I, ah, I would have really liked being part of your family.”

 

Eames looks at Robert with pity. He wouldn’t have minded if the lad were part of his family either. The boy is clearly in need of a strong role model, and Ariadne would have done the job beautifully. Parent or not, if he or Arthur had ever ordered Ariadne’s life around like that she probably would have knocked one or both of them in the nose.

 

He and his daughter are both modern, independent, _fierce_ ladies.

 

Maurice, apparently not quite having his fill of dramatic moments, pauses before opening the door. “Oh, uh, Mr. and Mrs. Harper. Or Halpert. Or, ah, Mr. and, um…..whatever your name is. I, well, I hope this doesn’t influence your vote come November.”

 

Arthur very nearly rushes the man. Ariadne jerking on the back of his suit jacket stops him short.

 

Maurice flashes a campaign smile and opens the door.

 

Suddenly the entire entryway is exposed to shouts and bright lights. Directly opposite Arthur and Eames are a dozen or more journalists, all waving cameras and demanding attention. Margot stumbles back from the door and Maurice shouts, pulling his arm back to slam the door.

 

With only a moment to spare, a sandy haired man tumbles through the open door, his shoulder catching on the casing as Maurice does his level best to throw him back out. After a small scuffle the man ends up sprawled out on the tile and Maurice slams the door in the crowd’s collective face.

 

“Who the hell are you?” Arthur shouts, the group springing into action and stumbling away from the man or, in Nash’s case, grabbing up an umbrella from the stand and waving it threateningly at the newcomer.

 

“Dominic Cobb,” the man says, looking around at Arthur’s home with a great deal of resignation. He stands; dusting his knees off, and doesn’t look twice at Eames, surprisingly. “I’m Mal’s husband.”

 

“Mal?” Ariadne says.

 

“Her husband?” Arthur turns to gaze at his one-time flame.

 

“Oh, no,” Maurice is looking mournfully at the door, “There’s the morning post.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

“Did you get him?” Mort shouts over the journalists clamoring at their side. He’d had to elbow the jerk from Fox News to get him and Tadashi front and center at the Halperts’ front door and he was hoping it had paid off.

 

“No,” Tadashi says with disgust, “If everyone hadn’t been braying like donkeys maybe I would have.”

 

“Damn it!” Mort grunts, and begins pulling Tadashi downstairs. “Let’s see what else we can find out in the club.”

 

“I’m not wearing a dress,” Tadashi says very firmly. “I’m serious.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

With resignation Eames calls, “Another news van has just arrived, and a car too. Oh, the ‘New York Eagle,’” Eames sighs, “That’s just print news.”

 

Maurice groans darkly from the corner of the living room that he’s been collapsed in since their discovery of the journalists at the door. “Don’t worry, they’ll all come now. I can read the headline already.”

 

Margot shushes Maurice, and tries to settle him in a chair. She tries to lay a cool cloth that she’d demanded of Nash onto her husband’s forehead. Since everyone had gathered in the room she’s been acting as if she dares anyone else to comment on her wifely prowess.

 

Maurice takes the damp cloth from Margot, covering his eyes with it in abject horror. “I can see The Post now: Senator Browning and his women; Senator Fischer and his men!”

 

Eames struggles to maintain a straight face, covering his laugh with a cough.

 

“It’s perfectly innocent,” Margot assures, “You simply came to meet the parents of the girl that Robert wants to marry.”

 

“Margot, no one believes in innocent these days! They look at Anthony Weiner and the twitter and the internet with the facebook! No one believes real media anymore! They’ll all think what they want and call everything else fake! Bah! Millennials are ruining this country with all their avocados and loose morals.”

 

“Well, if I can put in my two cents,” Dominic Cobb says, “They don’t really have anything on you. They can’t confirm that you’re really here. It’s just an idea right now; not reality.”

 

“You may not put in your cents,” Mal says harshly from his side, her accent thick with rage that is far from being concealed.

 

“Mal,” Dominic says sweetly, trying and failing to reach a hand out to his wife, “I just want you to come home, we need to talk about everything that’s happened.”

 

“Please don’t be upset,” Ariadne says from across the room, mortified. “This is all my fault. Mo –uh, Mal wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t wanted her to be. Please don’t feel that you have to argue about what’s happened here.”

 

“Here?” Cobb blinks and looks around the room like he’s considering everyone in it for the first time. “Why would we argue about anything here? I want Mal to come home and talk about the baby.”

 

“Baby?” Arthur chokes on air and looks at Mal in shock.

 

“Stop it, Dom,” Mal shuts her eyes and this time the rage is tempered by the tears that are clinging at her eyelashes. Her elegance is only intensified by her dangerously downturned lips. “I told you that I needed time to think about whether or not to keep the _bebe_.”

 

“What is there to think about?” Dom counters, “We’re going to be wonderful parents.”

 

“You think I will?” Mal demands, “You sit across from the child I abandoned decades ago and you think that just because another child grows inside of me that I will be able to raise it?”

 

Maurice sits up, the cloth falling from his face and into his lap. “I hope we aren’t talking about abortion right here in the sitting room like it isn’t a cardinal sin…”

 

“Oh, Christ,” Robert closes his eyes sinks as low as he can manage into the armchair.

 

Mal rises from the couch in pure indignation, curses dripping from her lips in rapid fire French.

 

“Mal!” Eyes turn to Mr. Cobb. He’s not looking at Maurice or the rest of the room however. He’s looking at his wife, and he looks absolutely distraught.

 

“Is that why you won’t talk about the baby? You think you’re going to be a bad mother?” Cobb stands, unfolding his long frame from the delicate cabriole that he and Mal had been crowded on. “Mal you’re going to be a wonderful parent. I’ve always known that. Only a parent that truly understood the responsibility of raising a child would have done what you did all those years ago. Look at the wonderful home that your daughter has been raised in! Look at how much she is loved! You gave her the best life she could have had by walking away from her back then. How were you every supposed to do anything else when you were broke and on your own?”

 

Arthur exchanges a look with Eames, the quick glance saying it all. The situation they find themselves in couldn’t possibly get any weirder. He might as well watch his ex-lover’s new husband beg her to keep their baby while sitting across the room from the grown child she’s never met, a conservative senator, and a drag queen.

 

“Please,” Cobb is begging softly, his arms circling around his wife, “Please think about the family we could have.”

 

After a very tense moment, and half a dozen faces watching the private conversation, Mallorie Cobb nods into her husband’s neck, silent tears leaking their way onto his collar.

 

“Another television crew!” Eames half shouts from the window, everyone jumping at the abrupt turn of face. “And they’re going into the club.”

 

Maurice turns from the Cobbs, looking as if he has a few more things to say but being more concerned about his own situation. “What do I do? Someone will notice if I’m just never seen again. I can’t live out my days above a drag club.”

 

“Wouldn’t you know it,” Eames says regretfully, completely ignoring Maurice, “The one night I’m not performing and the club is going to be on channel five.”

 

Arthur perks up, “Free publicity.”

 

“Can I get anyone more soup?” Nash calls from the doorway.

 

“No!”

 

“I’m sorry, father,” Robert says stiffly. He’s been wondering what more he can say and comes up with nothing.

 

“I know, Robert,” Maurice sighs. He pulls a couple of miniature candy bars from his suit jacket pocket and settles more comfortably into his chaise.

 

“Another drink?” Nash refills the Senator’s glass before he can be answered.

 

“I don’t really drink,” Maurice makes sure to say. The several whiskies from earlier apparently notwithstanding.

 

Nash laughs, in a much better mood since he discarded his shoes. “I know, hunny. But now’s the time to start.”

 

Ariadne sighs and tugs at Robert’s hand. If anything, she hadn’t thought the night would end with everyone drunk and morose in the living room. Her father’s looking more rumpled than he does at the end of Pride.

 

A thought occurs to her as she’s looking at her father.

 

“Hey, Dad,” Ariadne says, “Couldn’t the Fischers just slip out with the crowd at the end of the show?”

 

Arthur shakes his head, “No, they’d be recognized in two seconds. The news crews are waiting for that.”

 

Eames, with a look that Arthur has come to associate with some of the larger disasters in his life, turns to face the room from his window. “Not necessarily, darling.”

 

Arthur turns contemplative eyes to Maurice, understanding his partner’s idea immediately.

 

Maurice begins to feel unsettled.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Arthur’s feeling fantastic. His club is packed, his servers are stacked, and he’s back in his element.

 

Out of the ridiculously somber clothes from earlier he’s back in his usual jacket, Armani silk shirt tight across his chest, and Italian leather boots setting trends. Carmen and her dancers are finishing a Latin number and the whole club smells like booze and sweat.

 

It’s fantastic.

 

“Arthur!” Yusuf is surprised to see his employer, and more than a little nervous at the wide grin stretched across his face.

 

Arthur claps Yusuf on the back and leans past him. Flipping a switch he cuts into the club’s sound system, his voice echoing out across the heads of the patrons.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight. As we come to the end of the show we have just one important message for all of our guests: Family. No matter who you’re going home with tonight,” Arthur says, “No matter if you’re going home alone, going home with a twink, a bear, your daddy, or Brian-fucking-Kinney remember that this is your home. The Birdcage will never shut its doors to you. Our family is our family, and we are God damn proud.”

 

The crowd starts _screaming_. Arthur tells Yusuf what track to load and then he disappears from the sound booth, spring in his step.

 

Arthur is triumphant.

 

_“We are family! I got all my sisters with me! We are family! Get up everybody and sing!”_

Eames slips onstage, his favorite silk hugging his body and his wig red and curly on his shoulders. Arthur, by comparison, is slipping through the crowd, weaving his way through the producers and television crews that are lining his bar.

 

Arthur relays his message to the bartender, and the taps the ankle of the dancer on the nearest platform.

 

“Yeah, Mr. H?”

 

“We’re marching out tonight!” Arthur shouts up to him, “At the end of the show, we’ll take the crowd into the street. Spread it around!”

 

The dancer gives a wink and a shake of his ass, turning back to the club.

 

Arthur pops the collar of his shirt, “Showtime.”

 

On stage Eames’ dips are low and his hip thrusts deep. With a smirk he fades to the back of the crowded stage and ducks a head between the curtain part. “Just remember to keep smiling, mate!”

 

With a yank he pulls Senator Fischer on stage.

 

Only, it isn’t Senator Fischer. It’s the Ice Queen from one of Eames’ most applauded performances. With a tall white wig, a long silver evening dress, and glitter spread across every piece of exposed skin, Maurice Fischer looks anything but the conservative lawmaker. His mascara is flawless.

 

“Keep moving,” Eames shouts, “And don’t stop dancing!”

 

Arthur joins the stage from the wings and gives Eames a nod. With professional execution they begin to take their number to the floor.

 

On Arthur’s arm is Mrs. Fischer, yet another brightly covered wig wrapped expertly around her head. She’s wearing a heavily beaded flapper dress that Arthur pulled off a delighted club regular, and she’s got an aqua colored feather boa wrapped around her neck.

 

Turning to look over his shoulder, Arthur makes eye contact with his daughter. With delight he realizes the wide eyed look of happiness on her face mirrors his own.

 

“I love you, Dad!”

 

“I love you too, Ari. Never forget that!” Next to her Robert has been made up, gelled, and poured into the tightest pair of leather pants that Eames could find in their closet. Contrary to his parents, Robert is looking around himself with amazement, holding onto Ariadne’s hand as firm as he can.

 

Arthur shoots the young man a grin and turns back to face front. He’ll make a son-in-law out of that boy yet.

 

When the dancers reach the floor they’re parted by the crowd, but determinedly most of them manage to keep the mass moving towards the doors. Maurice is left frighteningly on his own for a few moments, and begins mumbling the chorus of the song under his breath to swell his bravery.

 

Several feet away, Margot finds herself being hip bumped by an attractive man with a thick Brooklyn accent. Sparing her no shame, he grinds his hips into hers. “I’ve never done this with a man before!”

 

Margot recovers, feeling some of her usual walls crumble away. Everyone in the club seems so content with themselves, so confident of their surroundings; they’re not pretending all the time like her bridge club or her damnable charity council.

 

“Well,” Margot shouts back at the young man, deepening the baritone of her voice as much as she can, “There’s always a first time for everything!”

 

Arthur appears at her side a moment later, tugging her back on track. They join Robert and Ariadne who have found Maurice and hear Maurice remark to Robert that no one is dancing with him.

 

“It’s this dress!” Maurice shouts in Robert’s ear. “I told them it would make me look fat! Too revealing!”

 

“Maurice!”

 

Arthur puts an arm on Maurice’s elbow to try and keep the group together in the crowd and the other father latches back onto him in return. “Don’t leave me,” Maurice implores him, “I don’t want to be the only girl not dancing!”

 

“Keep moving towards the door!” Arthur pushes Maurice in front of himself and into Eames’ waiting arms.

 

“Care to dance?” Eames winks at Maurice, and after a moment of struggling to see who would lead manages to begin a mock tango, strutting the man towards the doors.

 

“We are family,” Maurice sings to himself for comfort as they dance right past Mort and Tadashi who are waiting by the door, eyes darting from one club patron to another.

 

X-_X-_X

 

Outside, Mal and Cobb are waiting double parked a block down from the club entrance. The Fischers’ car is visible on their other side. The driver is leaning against the door, smug ridicule on his face.

 

“Here,” with a great deal of strength Eames helps settle the senator into the car next to Mal, Margot climbing in the other side. Robert and Ariadne crowd into the back.

 

The senator rolls down his window as soon as he shuts the door. He waves to his driver. “Meet us at the corner of Bank and Waverly Place in twenty minutes!”

 

Mal lays the gas pedal flat and the driver shouts “Lady, not for a million dollars,” after the car, not even recognizing his foul tempered employer.

 

“These kids,” Arthur says, turning and crowding Eames up against the curb, listening to the entire club empty into the streets behind them, singing. “What are we going to do?”

 

“Well,” Eames says, laying a couple quick, chaste kisses against Arthur’s lips. “I’m going to wear my Michael Kors to the wedding for one.”

 

Arthur grins helplessly against Eames, confident in his own skin. “I love my fucking family.”

 

X-_X-_X

 

**Epilogue, June 2015**

 

“Are you sure we have the right house?” Arthur asks, glancing under the sun visor at the gated off colonial home in front of them.

 

“Of course I am,” Eames says, “Just look at the awful lawn ornaments.”

 

Arthur shakes his head and pulls up to the gate. “This is a terrible idea.”

 

Eames rolls his eyes, “Just ring the buzzer will you? I’m surprised there’s not a bloody butler at the end of the drive to welcome us.”

 

Arthur thumbs at the intercom, and waits until a somber older woman asks him his business. “Fischer family reunion,” Arthur calls back into intercom. “We’re Ariadne’s parents, the Halperts!”

 

The gates open in front of them and Arthur puts the car into gear. Eames’ phone buzzes in the glove box.

 

“Do you think the kids will be glad to see us?” Arthur worries quietly.

 

“Darling,” Eames gives Arthur a fond look of exasperation, pulling his mobile from the glove box. “They’ve been on their honeymoon for weeks, I’m sure Ariadne has missed you terribly.”

 

Arthur sighs, parking in front of the house and watching a teenage valet come to life by the door. “Surrounded by Fischers at a family garden party, are we crazy or what? Eames?”

 

Eames is somewhat slack jawed in the passenger seat staring at his mobile. Arthur waves off the valet trying to get his attention through the glass of his windows. “What is it? Jesus, did someone die?”

 

“No,” Eames’ eyebrows climb into his hairline, “Supreme Court ruling actually. It looks like you yanks got something right for once.”

 

“What?” Arthur breathes, his mind already connecting the dots.

 

Eames holds up his phone and grins. “It seems as though gay marriage is now legal in all fifty states.”

 

Arthur laughs. He laughs in delight and in success, and dimples a wide smile at his partner. Climbing halfway out of his seat he catches tugs Eames up by the collar of his pink paisley shirt and into a kiss that ends up a great deal filthier than he intended. The valet stares awkwardly from in front of the Fischers’ house.

 

“Arthur?” Eames asks, his lips finding their way to the hollow between Arthur’s neck and ear. “Shall you tell Maurice the good news or shall I?”

 

**X-_X-_X**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After years and years and years it’s finally finished! And, I couldn’t be gladder about it. This fic originally started with inspiration from Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” as I walked to class one day in 2012, and quickly gained steam after New York legalized same-sex marriage that summer. And, with same-sex marriage getting legalized in 2015 across the entire US it seemed fitting that Arthur and Eames get to celebrate that in the end too.
> 
> I hope this was enjoyed and well received. It’s not often I take the comedic road, and The Birdcage is such a special film. This last chapter was especially hard for me because the dinner scene and the end of The Birdcage is so reliant on situational comedy, and made all the better by the terrific job the actors did with it.
> 
> I had planned on giving Cobb a bit of his due since the beginning, though that was more for my own pleasure than anything else. I didn’t want to leave the poor boy out! Although, he is quite irrelevant to the story. 
> 
> I hope anyone who hasn’t seen The Birdcage takes an afternoon to watch it. It’s truly a one of a kind film. That magic is hard to come by, and no one could do as good a job as Nathan and Robin did. It’s available on the Dailymotion website.
> 
> And of course, a quick word of thanks to Robin Williams for all the work he did in his lifetime. The talent of an age!


End file.
